


Meander

by VR_Trakowski



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, character experiences death during dream, reposted, so not really dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VR_Trakowski/pseuds/VR_Trakowski
Summary: Though you may wander, you will find your way home.
Relationships: Ariadne/Arthur (Inception)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	1. The Good That Was Given Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2010.

"I don't imagine we'll be seeing much of him for a while," Eames said with a soft smirk, looking after the tall figure that was moving with eager haste towards the security gate.

"You think?" Arthur kept his tone dry. He was glad for Dom's reunion with his family - more than glad - but he was hardly going to cop to it in front of Eames.

The forger shrugged, and swung his bag off the conveyor belt rumbling past their shins. "Can't blame him really." He didn't look at Arthur; it was habit, after a job was finished, to split up and pretend they didn't know each other, lest the mark recognize them. "Want to catch a drink later?"

Normally the answer would be _no,_ but the accomplishment they'd just pulled off was going to require some serious debriefing, and Dom was obviously not going to be there. "All right." Arthur set the big case on the luggage cart he'd snagged. "Call me."

"Bring Sleeping Beauty," Eames said, and sauntered off, bumping casually into Yusuf as if he wasn't watching where he was going and no doubt delivering the message.

Arthur grimaced. It wasn't that he objected to the nickname Eames had bestowed on Ariadne, but technically she was Cobb's protégé, and while he didn't mind tutoring on occasion, he wasn't a babysitter.

On the other hand, a good architect was a rare thing, and Ariadne was better than good. It was a simple matter to dial her number on his cellphone, watching her reflection in the metal wall as she answered.

"We're meeting later for a debrief," he murmured, the perfect image of a businessman calling to let the office know he'd landed. "Though I should warn you, it usually involves Scotch."

The reflection was too blurry to make out her smile, but he could hear it in her voice. "I like a good single malt."

For some reason, that made the corner of his mouth twitch up. "Good. You're buying the first round." He snapped the phone shut and picked up his suitcase, heading towards the exit himself, slowly enough to stay behind Fischer's slender figure and completely ignoring the dark-haired young woman who was fiddling with her passport.

Ahead of him, past the guard, he saw another face he recognized, and felt a strange surge of sorrow mixed with the pleasure as Dom's father-in-law welcomed him home.

* * *

He'd chosen an unexceptional hotel, though an excellent one; he liked to keep a low profile, but that didn't preclude comfort. And the better the hotel, the better the privacy.

His suite was large, plush, hushed; the wide windows looked out on the equally wide vista of Los Angeles and a truly splendid sunset. Arthur stowed the machine case carefully next to the bed - there was no point in hiding it, and anyway it was too big - and settled into familiar routine. Unpacking, sending out suits to be pressed, a long shower, dinner sent up.

He was a man used to living on the move, but there were ways to claim the space he inhabited, at least temporarily. The smell of his cologne on the steamy air, his razor and comb lined up just so, the battered wind-up alarm clock on the bedside table, his sleek little laptop open and precisely square on the desk. Small touches; tidy, but definite.

It was enough.

He ate dinner in front of the now-dark windows, listening to _Romilda e Costanza_ and getting up halfway through to dim the lights so he could see out. The city below was canyons filled with light, too bright for the stars to show, and somewhere in the midst of it all - possibly close by - Robert Fischer was mourning his father and thinking a new thought.

All in all, Arthur concluded, they'd done pretty well. He was still embarrassed about missing the fact that Fischer had had anti-extraction training, though laid next to Dom's sins it seemed less grave; still, Arthur prided himself on his detail work, and he resolved to do better the next time. Whenever that might be.

And then it was time to meet the others.

The bar was all dark wood and dim lights, upscale enough to be reasonably quiet but plebian enough to let them go unnoticed, and Ariadne had sprung for the good stuff. Arthur tasted the last of his Scotch and smiled, feeling his spine relax after the weeks of tension; the others around the small round table were experiencing the same release, to judge from the flush on Ariadne's cheeks and Yusuf's rather silly grin. Eames was subtler, but his eyes, narrow and sleepy, betrayed his satisfaction.

"…And when he opened the door, the shark was just circling right there!" Ariadne had a charming giggle, Arthur noted. Yusuf snorted and almost choked on his drink at her punchline, and Eames let out a surprised bark of laughter, leaning back in his chair and raising one finger to signal for a refill.

"Your turn, I think," Yusuf said, giving Arthur a look that could only be termed sly. They had finished hashing over the job long since. "Have you no stories of youthful high spirits?"

"Arthur doesn't have spirits to raise," Eames drawled. "He's practically a robot, is our man."

Arthur lifted his glass to Eames in ironic acknowledgment. "I have nothing more exciting to tell than my last thousand-mile oil change."

Ariadne giggled again, covering her mouth with one hand. She was on the edge of tipsy, Arthur guessed, but so were the others; he was the only one who had stopped at one drink. Yusuf rolled his eyes and shook his own glass, making the ice clink. "Just as well. It's getting late, my friends, and my liver thinks it's still over the South Pacific."

"Just so long as your bladder's caught up to this time zone," Arthur murmured, which made Ariadne laugh harder.

Yusuf gave him an extremely rude gesture, mitigated by an impatient grin. "Fuck off. I am off to bed for a few measly hours of sleep before I fly home." He shoved his chair back and stood.

"Going to get a head start on that pleasure garden?" Ariadne asked, propping her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands.

Yusuf sketched a comic bow. "Things grow quickly in Mombasa. Farewell, don't bother to write." He plucked his coat from the back of his chair and walked off.

They watched him make his way out of the bar; he didn't look back. Yusuf was one of the best in the business, Arthur mused, but they had been lucky to talk him into doing more than providing the necessary drugs. He didn't think the chemist would agree to participate in any further extractions, at least on such a personal level.

"I should get going too," Ariadne said, sounding regretful. She was still flushed, but Arthur could make out the circles under her eyes even in the low light. The heavy sedative they'd used had kept them under, but it hadn't provided true rest.

"I think I'll linger," Eames said, accepting another drink from the waiter and nodding in thanks, gaze sliding towards the glossy bar on the other side of the room. Arthur didn't have to look to know that there were several lone women idling there. "The night's young."

"Have fun," Arthur said dryly, and nodded at Ariadne. "I'll walk you out."

It was simple courtesy; but it was also masculine unease at the idea of a young woman waiting alone for a cab in a strange city, especially after several drinks. She just smiled at him and stood, turning to Eames to say goodbye. Arthur felt his jaw loosen with surprise when the other man rose to give her a fond hug. "Remember what I said," he said as he released her.

Ariadne nodded. "Be careful," she replied, and picked up her shoulder bag.

Arthur followed as she wove her way through the bar's patrons and out into the warm night. A faint breeze was stirring the muggy air; there were no pedestrians, but they still moved to the edge of the sidewalk to wait for the next cab. "What did Eames tell you?" Arthur asked idly, curious.

Ariadne's smile was serene. "That I could design for him any time."

Arthur raised a brow. Despite Eames' habitual pose of nonchalance, that was high praise. Not that she didn't deserve it; Ariadne was a natural, and with a little more practice, Arthur thought that she could design for just about anyone.

The architect hitched her bag a little higher, her smile remaining. "Also that he always paid for breakfast."

_That_ made him choke. Eames had hit on _Ariadne?_

The idea stung, for reasons Arthur wasn't at all ready to consider, and he fought a momentary impulse to go back into the bar and instruct Eames on the nature of _respect_. But an instant later he'd locked the emotion down, a little shocked at himself for allowing it at all. "You…uh…"

Ariadne looked amused by his lack of response, though her reply was edged. "No, I didn't. Not that it's any of your business."

He gave her a cool look in return. "No. It's not."

The snub had no effect, judging from the way her lips curled. He wanted to touch the bottom one, run the tip of his finger along it, just to know the texture of that little dent in the middle. Arthur glanced up and away, noting the cab approaching and lifting an arm.

"So what happens next?" Ariadne asked, her voice softer, and when he glanced back she looked tired again, and a little forlorn.

He cocked his head in lieu of a shrug, arm still raised. "Go home. Figure out how to spend your share." The cab slowed and veered to the curb, halting neatly a few feet away, and Arthur reached for the door handle. "If you want to stay in the game, build a better mousetrap."

She blinked up at him, brows drawing together in a frown. "There won't be another job?"

He didn't know, and it hurt, that strange surge of loneliness, even though he had never begrudged Dom any share of happiness. "Probably. Eventually. A good architect is always in demand."

If there was disappointment in her face, it was covered swiftly. Ariadne nodded. "All right."

Arthur opened the taxi's door. She stepped into the gap he'd opened, hesitated, and then reached up. The tug on his immaculate tie was startling, but it brought him low enough, and the press of her lips on his cheek was a live, fleeting warmth.

"Thank you," she said in his ear, soft and solemn, and then she'd released him and was ducking into the taxi. Moving automatically, Arthur closed the door, and watched as it pulled away into the empty street, the taillights vanishing around the corner.

He walked back to his hotel, trying very hard not to think.

* * *

The offers were still out there, even if Dom was busy. Arthur let the usual few months pass - they almost never did jobs one on top of another, it was too dangerous - and then went to pay a visit to his old friend.

It was good to see Dom so…relaxed. It had been years, Arthur realized; years that Dom had spent carrying the weight of guilt and fear and loss. Now, as he leaned back in a chair on a sun-dappled lawn and watched two children play on the swingset not far away, the strain was gone, though Arthur could see the lines in his face laid down by sorrow.

"You look well," he said, his voice low enough to not disturb Phillipa and James at their game.

Dom shot him a wry smile. "I feel...good," he admitted. "Sometimes it's still hard to believe."

"Do you spin your totem?" Arthur asked, half-teasing, half-not. His own was a small hard knot in his pocket; a constant presence, the occupational hazard for their profession.

Dom's smile softened, and he looked back to the kids. "Every day."

Arthur watched them himself for a while, conscious of the haven around him - built for Mal, but kept now for her children. He could understand the fear of finding out it wasn't real, but he'd never suffered Dom's doubts. There were times in the Dream when he thought himself awake - hence the token - but almost never while awake did he think himself asleep. Reality was a solid truth for him; Eames always said it was because he had no imagination.

Arthur preferred it that way. Every extraction team needed someone unimaginative to be the anchor.

They chatted over inconsequentials and beer for a while, but behind it all was a question, waiting to be asked and answered, and the longer it lingered the more Arthur suspected what the answer would be.

He waited until the light grew golden, though, and the savory smell of dinner crept out the kitchen windows. "We've got a job offer. Robitech wants the latest on upcoming patents from YYD Propulsion Systems, and they're willing to pay top dollar."

Dom didn't answer for a moment, gaze lingering on the small forms not far away. But the quirk of his mouth bespoke regret, and Arthur knew. "I can't."

"Not now?" Arthur asked bluntly. "Or not ever?"

Dom blinked, and looked back to him. "Not now," he said. "I…don't know about the rest." He gestured with his bottle, rushing on. "I can't leave them again so soon, you know that…and I'm not sure I can handle the risks any more."

_You were willing to handle them before,_ Arthur carefully didn't say. Back then, Dom had been desperate to get back to his family, pushing boundaries beyond even Arthur's comfort level to achieve his goal. Things were different now.

"I get it." Arthur took a sip of his beer without registering the taste. They'd worked with many different professionals, over time; but it had always been the two of them together, Dom leading, Arthur anchoring. "But I don't know where else I'm going to find a decent extractor."

He'd laced the words with humor, and Dom's smile returned, wistful and the slightest bit wicked. "You could do worse than Eames."

Arthur sat up straight, outraged. "Please tell me you're kidding."

Dom leaned back in his chair. "You underestimate him."

Arthur shook his head. "He's unreliable, untrustworthy…you've _seen_ what he's like in there, way too overenthusiastic! He's a fucking loose cannon."

"He's reliable," Dom retorted quietly. "You just don't want to give him credit for it. His forging skills - his ability to shapeshift - it makes him an asset."

"Maybe." Arthur huffed, annoyed because Dom had a point. "But he's not - "

Dom set down his bottle, reaching into one pocket and bringing out his totem. "Careful, Arthur. You protest too much." There was a little glass-topped table between their chairs, holding the bottle opener and the discarded caps. Dom reached down and set the top spinning. The look he shot Arthur held sympathy, and Arthur turned away, feeling angry and bereft.

A small form hurtled into his chair, and Arthur blinked as James swarmed up into his lap. "Mister A! It's almost dinnertime!"

Arthur automatically put out an arm to keep the boy from toppling. "Really?" he asked, distracted despite himself. He didn't generally care for children, but Dom's were engaging. "What are we having?"

James went into enthusiastic detail, and Arthur missed hearing the click of metal against glass when the top finished its spin. But when he glanced back at Dom, he could see the challenge in his old friend's face.


	2. The Empty Corners of the Evening

It was hard to get back into real life, afterwards.

She'd known it would be, almost from the moment Cobb had asked her to conceive a maze; but the idea of drawing back had never really been a consideration. For one thing, she'd needed the money; but more importantly, she needed the adventure.

After all, she hadn't come all the way to France just for the architecture program.

Suddenly possessing more money than she'd ever had in her life - total - was more unnerving than she'd expected. Ariadne paid a few outstanding bills, bought the chic winter coat she'd been drooling over and a couple new pairs of shoes, and put the rest in the highest-interest account she could find - Eames had given her a few tips on how to make it look as if it came from a legitimate job.

And she'd gone back to class as if nothing had happened, as if she'd never spent the better part of several weeks learning to _build_ dreams, nor that she'd descended to what could easily have been a private hell…and come back…all in the time it took to get from one side of the world to the other. Professor M gave her some knowing looks, but he didn't ask any questions, and it was really kind of a relief.

Until it wasn't, and she finally sought him out during his office hours, though he never used the little space as anything but an oversized filing cabinet. The well-steep lecture room still had the last class' diagrams on the chalkboard, familiar and comforting.

He didn't look up when she descended the wooden stairs, but his voice carried as he wrote. "Come to talk about it at last?"

Ariadne huffed, and sat down at the closest desk. "You knew."

"Of course I did." He set down his pen and leaned back to look up at her. "I taught Dom, after all."

She shrugged helplessly, wishing she could talk to Cobb himself, or even Arthur, who had been surprisingly kind. "Yes, how did you get into this anyway? I mean, it's…"

"Illegal? Immoral?" Professor M regarded her with the gentle half-smile that could conceal anything from compassion to a readiness to pounce. "Too technologically advanced for an old man like me?"

Ariadne gave him a dry look. "I didn't say that."

He laughed. "True. You are ever respectful to my grey hairs. Well, my dear, the truth is that I…was involved in refining the concept some years ago, and later I trained Dom and Mal to build Dreams." The amusement sank away. "To my eternal regret, I must add."

Ariadne could appreciate that. "But you introduced me to Cobb anyway."

Professor M sighed. "Yes, well, he thought he'd found a way to clear the charges against him, and the children needed their father." He looked up at her again, his eyes piercing. "I owe you for that, Ariadne."

She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. "I'm glad he got to go home," she said, half-stifled. "He's a good guy."

They were silent a moment; Ariadne could almost feel Cobb's presence in the room, but if he was a ghost he was at rest.

"Dom's not why you're here," Professor M said then, voice brisker, and she looked back up. "You want to know what to do next."

"Yeah." Ariadne bit her lip. "I can't get it out of my head."

"Of course not," he said gently. "It's wish-fulfillment of the deepest kind; building what you imagine, _truly_ building it, with no constraints. It's terribly addictive."

"More so than the drugs?" Ariadne asked, a little sourly. "That's what they kept warning me about, that if you dream too often on the machine you can't dream without it, but I'm starting to think that's the least of it."

Professor M raised his brows. "It depends on what you do in the Dreams; for instance, I doubt young Arthur shares your problem. But - " He continued as she snickered at the image; _young_ was not a term she would apply to Arthur. " - My advice is, bank your profits, place the whole thing firmly in the past, and go on with your life. Call it a fabulous adventure if you must, but a once-in-a-lifetime event."

Ariadne leaned forward. "Then I can't do both?"

He hesitated, letting out a long breath. "It'll eat you up, Ariadne, this life. I've seen it happen too many times. People get sucked in, and they live for the next Dream, and nothing but. You're smart, you're prudent, or you wouldn't be here. Walk away."

She regarded him, seeing through the professorial gaze to what lay behind it. "You did, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. I had a family."

Ariadne cocked her head. "But you regret it."

He snorted. "Child, you can't reach my advanced age without regrets. But I still think I made the right choice."

Her eyes drifted to the diagrams behind him, potential in grainy white lines, and she nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

His lips tightened. "Ariadne…"

She gave him the wide-eyed innocence that worked so often, but his face didn't soften. "I promise I'll think about what you said."

Picking up her bag, she smiled at him and left. The grumble behind her wasn't loud enough to hear what he was saying, but she could guess.

* * *

It was chilly and gray when she emerged from the school. Ariadne wrapped her sweater a little tighter and walked to her favorite park, claiming a bench and sitting down despite the autumnal cold, soaking in the feeling of the ancient city around her.

It was something she loved to do, had done as far back as she could remember; reaching out when she got to a new place, _feeling_ it, taking in the way the buildings grew, the way the streets connected them. Paris was by far the richest she'd ever encountered, but coming from the New World as she did she put it down to age; there were no cities so old where she had grown up.

Her hands fiddled with the ends of her scarf. Normally she would have a portfolio in them, or a sketchbook at the very least, to draw and imagine and write down ideas as they came to her. But she left her bag unopened, and thought.

Professor M was sure she'd already made up her mind. Ariadne had to admit that he was very nearly right. Ethics aside, the world of the Dream _was_ seductive. It was, literally, god-like; conceiving a world and creating it, without having to bow to the constraints of time or money or laws or even physics. Ariadne knew that as an architect in the real world it would be years, if not decades, before she would be in a position to build solely what she wanted to build, unless she displayed a rare genius. Chasing that dream lost a lot of impetus when the possibility of _more_ was right at hand.

_But what about those ethics?_ She stared blindly at the ubiquitous pigeons milling around the gravel walks nearby. _It's theft._

_Corporate theft,_ another part of her pointed out. Stealing from mega-companies that could well afford it. _Hell, the inception was supposed to prevent a dangerous monopoly_.

But it was an invasion of privacy, of the deepest, most unprotected part of someone. _Who says it hurts them?_ the whisper asked. _Look at Fischer - he thought it was all exactly what it was, a dream._

_It's dangerous._ That one she couldn't pass by. Sedation aside, there was the possibility of growing addicted to the machine, and while Saito had seemed nice enough, she'd heard Eames' story about gunmen pursuing Cobb in Mombasa. Mega-companies might be able to afford the losses, but that didn't mean they would ignore them.

And yet…

The worlds she'd created haunted her. New York City had been more a copy than a creation, but the hotel of the second Dream had an entire world surrounding it, because she'd imagined it - even though Cobb had told her to construct the building so that the only way out was through the front door.

The third one she'd been most proud of, because so much of it was exteriors rather than buildings, and it had been much harder. _Being_ there had been a revelation - _she'd_ created it, the huge vistas, the mountains and the sweeping sky, the icy air and the trees. They existed because of _her._ And if they didn't exist for long, well, it didn't seem to matter so much.

_It's almost the inverse,_ Ariadne mused, nudging the gravel with one toe. _We design buildings to endure, but the Dreams only last a few minutes in real time. But the Dreams are far more complex than even the most meticulously designed city._

Well, _most_ of them only lasted a few minutes. She was still dazzled by what Cobb and his wife had created in their fifty years in Limbo - an endless, impossible city, subject to their whims and desires, without limits or constraints.

But the price for that was too high. _Fifty years…_ And that was in company. Being there _alone_ would surely drive one mad, or madder. Ariadne shivered. Limbo held no attractions for her.

Her cellphone rang, jerking her out of reverie, and she fumbled for it, grateful to be pulled back to the real world. The name on the display was familiar, and she smiled as she lifted the phone to her ear. "Bonjour, Maryse," she said. "What's up?"

Her friend was excited, but then Maryse always was. Ariadne listened to the excited babble about grades, clubs, and Maryse's newest boyfriend, letting the words flow over her in a comforting rush. They'd met sharing a class, and Maryse, gregarious and energetic, had taken the culture-shocked Canadian under her wing, helping her navigate Paris and all its quirks. Ariadne was grateful; she'd made other friends, but Maryse had, as she said, made it her mission to be sure that Ariadne didn't lose herself studying. Concealing her job with Cobb and his people had taken some fast talking on Ariadne's part, but she'd managed to convince her friend it was a work placement with peculiar requirements.

Much as she enjoyed Maryse's company, Ariadne knew that the woman would not understand the world of the Dream.

"…And you're coming with us tonight," Maryse finished. "I insist, and Tomás will be there too. He has been asking about you."

"Tomás? Well, then, I'll have to," Ariadne teased, grinning at the idea. She and Tomás had gone on a few dates together, outside of the mob of friends who seemed to surround Maryse most of the time; he was as foreign to Paris as Ariadne herself, and had charmed her on their first meeting by not mistaking the origin of her name for the legend of Arachne, as most people did.

Times and places were chosen, and Ariadne shut off her phone just as the first drops of rain began to fall. Sighing, she dug her umbrella out of her bag and set off for the cramped little flat she called home.

The rain had stopped by the time she met Maryse and the others at one of their favorite bars. Ariadne pulled herself up onto the stool that had been saved for her, exchanging kisses with the rest of the group and leaning into Tomás when he slid an arm around her waist. He was a beautiful young man, with dark blond hair and a charming accent in both English and French. He smelled of turpentine, she noticed, which was normal; he was an art student, struggling to bring his vision to canvas as she did hers to paper and models. What would he do in a Dream? she wondered suddenly. Could he create as she had, and would it be canvases beyond imagination, or actual scenes and objects?

The idea gave her a mild headache. Ariadne put the idea firmly from her and ordered a drink.

They spent a merry evening, drinking and talking, pausing for supper and then going dancing, but through it all Ariadne found herself feeling a little detached, as if she were not really a part of the group. It was puzzling; these were the best friends she had in Europe, and closer than most of those she'd left behind at home. But there was so much more inside her head now, crowding up behind the usual talk of romance and art, ambition and politics, that it kept squeezing her attention away. Tomás was as attentive as ever, and Ariadne felt bad spacing out on him, but she couldn't seem to help it.

It wasn't as though they were serious, she comforted herself. She knew Tomás saw others, and that she was free to do so if she wanted to; they'd shared a few kisses, but neither of them had seen fit to formalize anything just yet.

It wasn't just the Dreams that were preoccupying her. It was the faces in them. Cobb, gentle and troubled; Eames with his wicked smile and equally wicked wit; Yusuf, who hid wisdom behind a slightly foolish air; Saito, whose gallantry had moved them all; and Arthur, whose control intrigued her. She could still summon up that kiss he'd tricked out of her, a chaste press of lips that had given her a glimpse of his humor.

And yet -

Ariadne laughed out loud, the sound almost lost under the thump of the club's music. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out her totem, standing it carefully on the tiny table at which she sat and knocking it over with one finger. It fell precisely as she expected, and she tucked it away, just as Tomás returned with bottled water for them both.

"What amuses you?" he asked, taking the seat opposite. "You have been not here all night."

She looked up at his smile - at her height, just about everyone was _up_ , though Tomás was only a few inches taller - and returned it. "Sorry. I've just had a lot on my mind."

His expression was fond. "Cariña, you always have a lot on your mind."

"True." Ariadne accepted the bottle of water he offered her. "Let's just say, I've just solved a problem."

_Telling yourself you'll do it again is fine and dandy, but you have absolutely no way to get in touch with any of these people._ They had been using disposable cellphones to keep in touch, properly disposed of in Los Angeles. She hadn't even so much as an e-mail address.

And while she might figure out a way to put her skills up for sale on that very exclusive market, there was really no reason to believe that she would ever see any of them again.

The thought made her unexpectedly sad - disappointed, even. She'd felt so _close_ to them, especially Cobb, but that was probably to be expected given the nature of Dreaming. But if there was one thing Ariadne knew how to do, it was to move on.

She smiled again at Tomás, setting aside the sorrow for the moment. "Come on and dance with me. Take my mind off things."

He grinned back. "With pleasure."

* * *

Ariadne lay awake for a long time that night, trying to sort it all out in her mind. She was used to feeling out of place among her peers - she'd been doing it all through school, where her fellow students rarely looked beyond the confines of their small town for their futures. She'd always dreamed bigger.

_Dreams._ She muffled a laugh in her pillow. _Maybe Professor M is right. Maybe I should just let it all go._

She stared up at her ceiling, hidden in the darkness. _Maybe you should take another trip, get out of the routine for a while. You've been meaning to see the Cathedral at Wells for ages now…take a long weekend and go._ But the thought held little appeal.

In the morning, bleary-eyed, she took herself off for a long day of classes. When she turned her phone back on after the last lecture, a message was waiting.

It was brief and businesslike, almost cold, but it left her leaning against the nearest wall, feeling the world open up around her, wider and wider. Smiling, she called the number and left a return message.

"Hi, Arthur. Yeah, I'll be there."


	3. Sleep and His Half-Brother Death

"It's a straightforward extraction," Arthur said, looking from architect to forger and trying not to sense the missing presence. "Set it up, slip in, grab the goods and get out."

"Simple," Eames commented, slumping easily in his chair, arms folded. "I could do with simple right now." His voice was half-drowned by the rattle of sleet on the loft roof; so far, autumn in Helsinki had been decidedly damp.

Across from him, Ariadne leaned back against a table, looking interested. She was wearing a heavy sweater and thin woolen gloves, having complained of the cold from the moment her plane had landed, but her eyes were bright with excitement. "What are the 'goods'?"

"Patent applications." Arthur tapped a key on his laptop to bring up a schematic. "Robitech wants to get the drop on their rival. Very boring, I know," he added with a small grin at the wrinkle of Ariadne's nose. "But very lucrative."

He still wasn't sure what had made him attempt this. It was true, he had all the components he needed, with Yusuf agreeing to formulate the drugs when needed, but it still felt exceedingly strange to be the one in charge. Dom's absence was a palpable thing.

However, neither the architect nor the forger seemed to notice, which both reassured and nettled him. "Who's our target?" Eames asked.

Arthur handed each of them a dossier. "John Roquefort, chief of product development of YYD Propulsion. He has the final say on any innovation the company brings to market."

Eames snorted, opening his folder to the eight-by-twelve glossy of the man in question. "Ah, one of _the_ Roqueforts, then. The big cheese, as it were."

Ariadne snickered, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "I didn't name him. He's canny and ruthless, but he's old-fashioned. Roquefort's stated publicly that he considers dream extraction to be overhyped bosh. He'll have no protections at all."

Eames raised his gaze to Arthur, narrow and cool. "Are you quite sure of that?"

He deserved that, Arthur told himself, and limited his reaction to a sharp nod. "Yes."

The lift of Eames' brow was eloquent, but he made no protest. Ariadne leafed through the dossier, making little hums of interest. "Pre-Raphaelite art, huh? Doing an actual castle could be fun."

"Not too many stairs, please," Eames sighed. "My knees…"

Judging from the quick flick of Ariadne's smile, she took that no more seriously than the forger meant it. "Do you ever do stuff in costume?" She lowered the folder and looked up at Arthur. "I mean, everything I've seen so far was modern outfits. Do you ever set up a dream in another time?"

Arthur blinked, impressed all over again that she'd thought to ask so soon. "It's been done," he said cautiously. "But it's risky. Most dreamers tend to conceive what they see every day, and a dream too out of the ordinary can make them realize that it _is_ one."

"Ah." The sound was disappointed, but not discouraged, and she flipped another page. "Maybe a ruin…"

It was heartening to see them both take to the idea, at least. Arthur let out a quiet breath and wondered wryly if they really did have a chance of pulling this off.

Ariadne disappeared quickly after the initial planning session, saying she needed more drawing paper. Arthur found Eames standing in the square she'd formed for a workspace, three tables and a wheeled corkboard, and for a moment he paused to savor its clean lines; judging by the last time, it would soon be a welter of papers, models, pens, and books, though to give Ariadne credit she seemed to know exactly where something was when she wanted it.

Eames glanced up as Arthur approached. "She's enthusiastic," he said, running a hand along one of the tables. "Rather refreshing, really."

"I suppose." Arthur folded his arms, knowing Eames had something on his mind. "What is it?"

The forger shrugged elaborately. "Why her? She's good, but she's a tyro." At Arthur's raised brow, he turned one hand palm-up. "I'm not objecting, Arthur, I'm just curious. You tend to prefer, shall we say, expertise."

Arthur cocked his head. "Xhi retired, Williams is busy, Cassoletti is in prison in Singapore. The only architect who's available is Vinge."

"Thank you, I'll take the tyro," Eames said hastily, shuddering ostentatiously.

"He's good too," Arthur pointed out, amused.

"Of course he's good, but he should come with a warning label. Well, Sleeping Beauty is enough for a simple job like this," Eames continued, and Arthur bit back a sudden urge to defend Ariadne. "Frankly, I'm relieved."

The gleam in his eye warned Arthur, but he bit anyway. "Why?"

"Because the mere idea of you doing anything less than professional gives me the cold chills. See you tomorrow, then."

With that, he sauntered out, leaving Arthur staring at the corkboard and trying to remind himself why he'd hired the man.

* * *

Dreaming again was a wonder. Ariadne realized that she had started to treat the fact of Dreaming as if it were a dream itself, vivid but unreal despite the money in her bank account, but working with Arthur and Eames again made it true, dazzling but solid. And she liked them both, though she missed the others. Yusuf had been willing to debate comic books with her by the hour, and Saito's old-fashioned courtesy had been a delight.

As for Cobb, she missed him most of all, with his gentle mien and his occasional sly humor. Arthur missed him worse, though, that was obvious, though it was clear he would never admit to it. She couldn't blame him; the two of them had obviously been true partners, and while Cobb had every right to go home to his kids, it left Arthur struggling to work around the empty space by his side.

 _Arthur._ Ariadne smiled privately to herself as she sketched out ideas for their Dream. He was an enigma, a lanky, cool-eyed figure who sparred with Eames, who had a sharp sense of humor when he allowed it out, who knew more than he was ever willing to say. Sometimes Ariadne thought he considered her a child; other times she was sure he respected her. He was inconsistent, and all it did was make her more curious.

 _Admit it. It's not just curiosity._ Her lips twisted wryly as she realized that she'd left off the building and drawn Arthur instead, a little portrait from memory - his cat-with-cream expression, that one only saw when he'd just bested Eames in their everlasting battle of wits. He pushed her buttons, from those big deft hands to the brackets around his mouth, to the deep voice that seemed to resonate just beneath her breastbone.

Ariadne sighed, and tore the scrap off, stuffing it into her bookbag. _Down, girl. You work together._ Though there weren't exactly any EEOC regulations dealing with Dreaming…

She went back to the building, thinking about mazes - real and virtual - and what might be found within them.

* * *

Things progressed. Arthur continued delving into Roquefort's life, gathering detail. Ariadne built mazes, and Eames studied Roquefort's associates, learning one or two by heart in case he needed to impersonate one. Arthur flew down to Mombasa to pick up the necessary drugs, finding it a hot and bright change from Helsinki and wondering vaguely if he should have brought Ariadne along, just to warm her up a little.

He discarded the idea as soon as he realized it was there, but it still troubled him.

And they dreamed together, working out the dimensions of the illusory world into which they would lure their target. Ariadne was as skilled as could be asked, obviously glorying in "pure creation", even though she complained that the endless, serpentine private gallery filled with pre-Raphaelite paintings didn't really stretch her abilities.

Still, the team wasn't quite meshing. Eames submitted to Arthur's leadership better than he'd hoped, though the forger's tongue was no less sharp, but they were still three individuals working together, not three parts of a whole. Arthur told himself that it was a new team, without much practice in that configuration, and besides he couldn't expect the smooth synchronicity he'd shared with Dom. But something about that rang hollow.

He was rolling his totem from palm to palm one grey afternoon, taking a break from research and trying to think of nothing, when he heard familiar footsteps crossing the loft floor. Arthur didn't look over his shoulder; there was no point in encouraging her.

Of course, that didn't stop her. Ariadne stopped at his table and hitched one hip up onto its surface, careful of the printouts fanned across it. "I need to talk to you," she said.

He kept his gaze on the die, unconcerned. "Let me guess. Having shrunk Cobb's brain and gotten in a little practice, now you want to try your curiosity out on me."

Any hopes of offending her fled when she chuckled. "Do you ever get tired of being right?"

Her merry tone almost made him blink, but Arthur felt himself relax a trifle too. "Nope."

Ariadne grinned, and hooked her hands around her knee. She was wearing a ruana instead of her usual scarf, and she looked smaller than ever enveloped in its folds. "I don't want to 'shrink' you. I'm just curious as to what makes you tick."

"Clockwork," Arthur replied easily. "I have a gear in place of a heart. Ask anyone."

"Especially Eames?" She watched the die roll back and forth. "Now I'm imagining a big key sticking out of your back. Honestly, Arthur, I know I'm new at this but even I can see that this can't work unless each member of the team trusts the others."

"It works just fine," he pointed out. "The inception is proof of that. Due in no small part to your efforts, I might add."

The twitch of her mouth made it clear that she knew what he was doing with the rare compliment. "I understand that you and Eames have worked together before. But even when we're all dreaming together, that level of trust just isn't there."

"I trust you." It wasn't _quite_ a lie. The mistrust was…elsewhere.

Ariadne sighed, and pushed off the table. "But _I_ don't trust _you._ "

The die tumbled to a stop just next to his thumb, and Arthur looked up to meet her eyes at last.

"You're a locked door," she said, sounding almost sad. "I don't need to know your secrets. I just need a little light and air."

She was halfway to the other side of the loft before he found his voice. "You had to know Cobb's," he called after her.

"His were dangerous," floated back. "Yours aren't."

He sat for a long time, trying to figure out if he'd been insulted.

Secrets stayed on his mind as they parted for a week, Eames off to Greece and Ariadne returning to Paris for an exam, while Arthur held down the fort in Helsinki and they waited for their target's trip to an exclusive health resort. He found himself pulling out the dossier he'd assembled on Ariadne when Dom had hired her - the usual workup for any potential new team member, not as extensive as what he'd gather for an extraction, but still quite personal.

 _Twenty-four - older than she looks - Canadian, Caucasian, graduated with honors from Université de Montréal. Both parents still living, three older brothers, no major traumas._ Visible ones, anyway.

 _Miles' protégé._ Arthur wondered what the old man was making of her involvement with their merry band of thieves. Given that he'd gotten a reunited family out of it, Arthur didn't think Miles had much room to be critical, but one never knew.

 _Came to Paris to get experience, living on a shoestring._ Which had probably made the money all the more attractive.

She was still unlicensed, and had been looking for an internship while taking extra classes at Miles' university. Arthur could appreciate her determination. Architecture was a tough field, hard to break into, and the blue-collar background she'd come from couldn't have made it any easier. He wondered briefly what her family made of her choices; mother a homemaker, father a factory hand, two brothers working on fishing boats and the third joining his father at the factory. _She must have seemed a cuckoo in that nest._

Yet she'd made it to Paris, and Miles, and eventually to Dom. A diminutive, stubborn, big-eyed woman with brains enough - and imagination enough - to not only take on Dom's challenge but follow him into the depths of his own hostile mind, and return safely. She was not to be underestimated.

 _Guillame Robert. Boyfriend of two years._ There was even a photo, of a blond young giant with a sweet smile; she'd left him behind in Canada as ruthlessly as she had the rest of her life. Arthur wondered if the parting had been amicable. Had her lover tried to keep her, or sent her off to pursue her dreams?

Arthur closed the dossier with a sharp sigh, and tossed it back onto the table. _This is ridiculous._ He pushed to his feet, reaching for his overcoat. He didn't need to know any more about Ariadne than was necessary to understand how she might skew a Dream. Anything else was folly. Anything else was _involvement,_ and that was messy and uncontrolled and unacceptable.

 _But you kissed her,_ murmured the back of his mind.

 _It was a joke,_ he retorted furiously. _A distraction to keep her from panicking. It wasn't even real._

There was no answer, but the silence mocked him.

He locked the loft behind him and headed out, trying to leave the whole dilemma behind. _Time for some stress relief._

After all, the…facilities…were just around the corner.

* * *

The Dream began well. Eames had slipped them all into the health spa, with himself as a wealthy patient and Arthur and Ariadne as attendants; he was smug about it, but Arthur chose to be amused, because it really was the best configuration. Mr. Roquefort had an afternoon rest scheduled every day, and it was appallingly easy to insert themselves into his routine, and then his room, and then his head.

Ariadne was the watcher this time; Arthur wanted to keep the personnel to a minimum, and besides she could look astonishingly innocent when necessary. She hooked Roquefort up deftly while Arthur and Eames did their own lines, one on either side of their target's bed. The last sight Arthur had as he closed his eyes was her monitoring Roquefort's pulse, demure in her starched white coat -

The gallery's corridors were white-walled, airy, filled with an unsourced light. Hanging on the walls, glowing like gems, were huge paintings of dark-eyed ladies and their knights, legends retold in textures and colors so vivid as to be almost tangible. Guests gathered in small groups, admiring the artwork.

Arthur found himself in a faultlessly correct tuxedo, a glass of champagne in one hand. Lifting it to his lips without tasting, he looked casually around, spotting Eames - equally well-dressed - almost at once in a cross-corridor. The forger gave no sign that he'd noticed Arthur, but a moment later he drifted closer.

The two of them paused in front of a scene that Arthur guessed was Medea at her cauldron. "Anything?"

"Our girl has it spot-on," Eames replied, voice laced with satisfaction. "He's right around the corner."

The two of them moved idly from painting to painting, edging their way closer to their target. Arthur noted in passing that several of the paintings looked familiar, but he preferred later artists and he wasn't sure whether they were all copies of real ones.

Roquefort, a tall, elderly figure, was attended by three women of various ages, all beautiful. Arthur made the first move, approaching the group and offering a respectful nod. "Marvelous collection, sir."

Roquefort glanced at him, gaze polite but disinterested. "Thank you. Yes, I'm quite proud of it."

Arthur let the champagne wet his lips, no more; it didn't really taste like anything. Flavor was not a common element in dreams. "I particularly like the Rossetti _Regina Cordium_ in the next room."

"Ah?" Roquefort brightened, his interest caught. "Most people don't even know the artist, let alone the title."

"I've admired your collection a long time." Arthur dipped his head in the ghost of a bow.

"Have you now." Roquefort eyed him closely, and Arthur held his breath; if the old man sensed something out of place, the whole thing could implode very quickly. "Well. Let me see if you can appreciate a _true_ rarity."

Roquefort detached himself from the projection clinging to his arm. "Give me a moment, my dear, while I show this young man the gem of the collection," he said fondly, and Arthur relaxed minutely as the subs gave him long looks, but no more. _So far, so good._

The mark led him slowly towards the heart of the maze, stopping to discuss other paintings along the way. As they approached the central room, its closed door swung silently open, and Arthur held himself ready to react, but Roquefort didn't seem to notice. His attention was taken by the biggest painting the room held; it was almost as wide as Arthur was tall, resting on a low easel that in turn sat on a black marble dais, and Roquefort made a beeline for it.

Behind him, a tall blonde woman moved to shut the door, pulling the train of her evening gown neatly out of the way. She was unfamiliar, but when Arthur glanced at the glass covering one of the sketches hung in the room, he saw a faint reflection of Eames wink at him.

Arthur obeyed Roquefort's summoning gesture and came up beside him. "Priceless."

"It is," Roquefort agreed, rapt. "A treasure." His hand came up as if to stroke the canvas, then fell to the dais. "My most precious treasure."

 _That's it._ Arthur suppressed a grin, letting his own gaze drop briefly to the veined stone. _Gotcha._ "I'm glad it's held so safely here."

Someone knocked on the door, and he swore silently. _It's locked,_ he told himself, but there was a matching door on the far side of the room, the other end of the maze, and if the subs were already on the move then it was only a matter of time before they came through one or the other. _What happened to get them stirred up so soon? We didn't change anything -_

"Perhaps." Roquefort was beginning to look uneasy, glancing back at the door, and the blonde lady glided up to his side, hooking an arm through his.

"Why don't you tell me about the works through there?" Eames cooed sweetly, gesturing at the open door. "There's so much more to see, darling."

Roquefort smiled, relaxing again, and allowed himself to be led out. As soon as they were out of sight, Arthur set his glass on the floor and lifted the painting down so he could examine the dais. But the stone was smooth all the way around; there were no catches, no cracks, nothing to indicate a hidden space within.

It went counter to all the dream-logic he was used to. Arthur frowned, alarmed. Had he misread Roquefort? Was the man trained after all, and bluffing them? No, that couldn't be right -

He spun, looking at the paintings around him. They all looked normal at first, but as he glanced from one to the next and then back again, he realized that the first one had changed. The knight on horseback was no longer receiving his lady's favor; instead, he was riding away, not looking back to see her hand lifted in farewell.

Arthur swore out loud, turning on his heel. The other paintings had changed, too, either evolving in the same fashion or showing or other images altogether. _Ariadne!_

Behind him, Arthur heard rapid heels, and turned again to see Eames' lady hurry back into the room, closing the second door tightly and dropping a bar across it. "Someone forgot to give Sleeping Beauty a lesson in control," he commented acidly. "The subs are buzzing like an overturned hive out there." He shook himself, shedding the female image.

"We have a more immediate problem," Arthur returned, waving at the dais and the painting leaning against it. "There's nothing there."

Eames looked over, and rolled his eyes. "Really, Arthur. I know you pride yourself on your lack of imagination, but this is ridiculous." He strode over and lifted the painting, placing it precisely on the dais, then leaning back to make a minute adjustment.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut briefly, trying for patience. "I grant you, it's a nice example of the Pandora theme, but - "

"But this is a dream, and Sleeping Beauty is a novice. Of course she'd go in for symbolism." Eames reached casually _into_ the painting, lifting the lid of the casket that was its focus and pulling out a handful of small tubes. He tossed them to Arthur, who picked them out of the air and opened each one rapidly, unscrolling the thin paper inside and committing the contents to memory with the skill of long practice.

Someone began hammering on the door they'd come in by, much louder than the original knock, and within seconds the other door was vibrating under equal blows. Eames shot it a nervous look. "They weren't supposed to solve the maze that quickly."

"The whole damn thing wasn't supposed to start _mutating,_ " Arthur growled, crumpling the papers and shoving them in his breast pocket. "Damn Cobb anyway, he was supposed to - "

The twin _bang_ of the doors flying open drowned out his words, and the subs poured into the room. Arthur swore again, reaching for the gun he carried at the small of his back, but he knew it was hopeless. Beside him, Eames had fished out an Uzi from nowhere and was mowing down their attackers, but more and more came swarming in. With the calm despair of necessity, Arthur shot him through the temple, and then put the muzzle of the gun into his own mouth.

They took him down before he could squeeze the trigger, but his skull hit the marble floor hard -

Eames was hissing like a muted teakettle, words that he saved for special occasions. Arthur blinked and sat up in his chair, shaking off the Dream's grogginess and trying to be quiet about it as he stripped off the leads.

" - not supposed to bloody well _change!_ " Eames finished in a furious whisper from the other side of the bed, and Arthur drew his legs out of the way of Ariadne as she hastened to disconnect Roquefort from the equipment.

"I'm _sorry!"_ she hissed back, her coat almost catching Arthur across the face as she moved. "I - "

"Save it for later," Arthur ordered quietly. "Right now we have to get out of here."

As if to underscore his point, Roquefort stirred and groaned. Ariadne stepped back to close the case, and Arthur pushed to his feet. Eames brushed off his expensive shirt, still glaring, and gathered up the headphones and digital player that had been waiting beside him.

Within moments they were packed, and Ariadne left first, leaving the door open behind her to signal an empty hallway. Eames and Arthur followed, Eames sauntering, Arthur moving briskly with the anonymous silver case. Whatever else happened, they had the goods, and the next step was to get safely away and _deliver_ them.

Recriminations could wait.


	4. Push the Button, Max

The train trip back to Paris was a long one, and Arthur had booked them business-class seats. Eames was going elsewhere, and while his irritation seemed to have subsided, he'd stopped to talk to Ariadne as he was leaving.

"Learn some control, Sleeping Beauty," he'd told her, voice flat though his eyes were kind. "No one will work with you otherwise."

She'd stammered out some inane response, but he'd merely patted her arm and vanished, suitcase in tow, leaving her face burning with embarrassment. _But how the hell was I supposed to **know**?_

Now, more than an hour into their journey, she sat silently opposite an equally silent Arthur, fiddling restlessly with a paper cup half-filled with tea gone cold. She felt like she should say something, apologize again maybe, but the closed expression on his face did not invite…well, anything.

She was just about ready to leave the compartment and spend the rest of the trip in third class when he stood, lifting down the machine case from the luggage rack overhead. Setting it on an empty seat, he popped it open.

"What are you doing?" Ariadne asked, frowning worriedly. "I'm not sure - "

"Cobb didn't finish your education," Arthur interrupted. "Lock the door."

 _Oh, great._ She grimaced, but did as he ordered, closing the door blind for good measure. Arthur unwound the leads, sitting back down and passing her one set of lines. "We'll pick up where he left off."

Ariadne shot him a look of exasperation, and hooked herself into the machine.

"Something a little more familiar, this time," Arthur instructed, and pushed the button -

_Familiar, huh?_

They were walking across a windy stretch of prairie, warm in the sun - quite beautiful, in a wild way, but with no buildings in sight. Arthur said nothing at first, but Ariadne knew she'd done a good job. There were flowers blooming in the long grass, and bugs, and the occasional bird. They strolled along a rutted trail that looked like it was left over from the 1800s and felt like it went on forever. The sense of peace was palpable.

"It's not your fault," Arthur said at last, clasping his hands behind his back and squinting at the infinite sky.

"That's not what Eames said," Ariadne muttered, hunching her shoulders defensively and crossing her arms.

Arthur snorted. "That's Eames. Look, you know as well as I do that Cobb had a lot more on his mind than showing you how to handle Dreamspaces. He shouldn't have forgotten to explain how things can shift, but there was no way you could know."

"Wasn't there?" she said bitterly. "Nothing changed before. I designed _three worlds_ , and nothing changed!" She still couldn't figure out why the gallery hadn't held -

"You were _in_ them," Arthur said, shaking his head. "When the architect is in the dream, it's much more stable because you're constantly reinforcing it, whether you're aware of it or not. And the number of extractors helped too, because we all knew what it was supposed to be like."

The knots in her stomach began to loosen. "You do good work," Arthur added. "Better than good. You just need experience."

His praise was unexpectedly gratifying, but it didn't solve her problem. Ariadne smiled tightly. "It doesn't help if I get you both killed."

Arthur grinned a little and looked back out over the prairie. "Not all practice has to be for a job. You'd need someone to dream with anyway."

They walked another few yards. "Are you volunteering?" she asked dryly.

He shrugged. "Eames won't."

Ariadne sighed, uncrossing her arms and stuffing her hands in her pockets. "Or I could find another outfit." She glanced over at him, half-shy, half-humorous, and suddenly noticed that she'd dressed him in a flannel shirt and jeans, as if he belonged there on the endless prairie. "You don't have an obligation to me, Arthur. Don't think I haven't realized that."

Blinking, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, and Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, Cobb does. Think of it as me picking up his slack."

Ariadne snickered, moving faster. "I get the feeling you do that a lot for each other. How did you two meet, anyway?"

His mouth quirked. "Later. We're here to work on your control. Let's get back to the gallery."

 _You and your secrets,_ she thought with amusement. "All right."

Ariadne halted for a moment. _There? No… Right **there**._

And it was. She started walking again. Arthur followed her off into the long grass, watching as she reached down to a set of weathered storm doors set into the ground.

"Nice," he observed. "Very Kansas."

Ariadne sniffed as she heaved one door open. "Bite your tongue. It's Saskatchewan."

The dusty wooden stairs leading down were, without transition, suddenly at right angles, leading them both into one of the white marble corridors of the gallery's maze. Ariadne strode across the hall, propped her hands on her hips, and looked around. "Okay. So what am I doing wrong?"

Three five-minute sessions of sleep gave them three hours to work in the Dream. Arthur demonstrated the trick of fixing details, which, he explained, was harder than setting the overall world but was crucial to the extractors' safety.

"Details are killer," he said, gesturing at a painting that stubbornly insisted on shifting every time Ariadne relaxed her concentration. "Normal dreams change at random, it's part of their nature. We have to make sure that the only changes that take place are the ones we want."

He showed her the particular mental _stomp_ required to "set" things, but much to her frustration Ariadne couldn't quite get the hang of it, and Arthur's projections moved in on her with unrelenting, painful accuracy.

"Relax," Arthur told her during the third session. "You can't expect to get it all at once."

"Can't I?" Ariadne said wryly, shoving damp hair out of her face. Concentration was making her sweat, and dream or not, it was uncomfortable.

Arthur, sitting next to her on one of the marble benches she'd added to the gallery, chuckled. "You can't be a genius at _everything_. Besides," he continued, apparently unaware of her blush, "I'm not exactly the best teacher anyway; I've never done much design."

Ariadne sighed. "I don't think it's you. I feel like I did when I was learning to draw in a mirror. Like I get close and then veer off."

"Practice," Arthur reminded her. "You didn't design a perfect building on your first try, did you?"

Ariadne gave him a small grin. "Hey, I was _really good_ at Legos."

That made him laugh. Ariadne took a deep breath and tried again.

When they surfaced for the third time, she found she could barely move. It was one of the side-effects that Cobb had warned her about; sedation was not truly rest, and every so often the body would rebel against the drugs by demanding natural sleep on the spot.

Arthur, drat him, was not suffering from the same lassitude; he was already stripping away his leads. Ariadne struggled to sit up and failed, trying to make her fingers work precisely enough to remove the lines.

He smiled, an unexpectedly gentle expression, and rose from his seat to kneel in front of her, warm fingers sliding the needles from her skin so expertly that they didn't even sting. "I can do it," she mumbled, but he was already finished.

"I know you can. Get some real sleep, architect." He patted her shoulder as he rose, and her eyes closed inexorably.

* * *

They practiced, mostly using scenarios Ariadne was likely to be requested to make as an architect - offices, streets, grocery stores. Arthur limited them to one session every few days at the most, warning Ariadne again about the dangers of getting addicted to the machine.

"Why don't you design?" she asked one chilly afternoon, as he refilled the device. Asking questions was a good excuse to covertly admire the sight of him, coatless and with his sleeves rolled up; for no particular reason at all, she loved his wrists. But she was also curious.

He said nothing for a moment, then glanced up at her across the table. "Light and air, huh?"

Ariadne shrugged, grinning a little, and he smiled wryly back. "I can't," he admitted. "As Eames is so eager to point out, I have no imagination."

She sniffed impatiently, pulling out her totem to fiddle with. "That's bullshit. You designed that atrium you showed me, remember?"

Arthur shook his head. "That was mostly memory, which is fine for a tutorial, but it can get complicated in a Dream if it's not mixed liberally with invention. Besides - " He hesitated, looking faintly embarrassed. " - I can't do exteriors."

… _What?_ Ariadne blinked. "I don't get it."

Arthur grimaced and reached for a vial of sedative. "I can only imagine the insides of things. Rooms, hallways…stairs. Things with defined boundaries. Anything else comes out too imprecise."

"Oh." She tried to conceive of that, and couldn't manage it; she'd been dreaming up whole cities as far back as she could remember. "So how'd you get into this business?"

He smiled again, sharp and amused. "I was a thief."

She gaped at him, and he pressed the vial into place. "What, you can't imagine me stealing actual items instead of virtual ones?"

"Well…yes," she confessed, smiling back. "But not as a cat burglar. More like a hacker." She couldn't picture his elegance, his _force_ , prying up windows to rummage through dresser drawers.

"Hacking is also virtual," he pointed out. "I worked mostly with big-ticket items. Gang work, not independent; we had contacts all up and down the coast."

"Hmm." Ariadne sobered. It changed her perception of him, though she knew nothing about theft besides what she saw on TV - not that she credited it with reality. He'd always had a dangerous edge, but it was a bit chilling to realize that it wasn't just appearance.

"Where are you from?" she asked after a while - not at all the question he had expected, to judge from his blink. Arthur shut the restocked case with a snap.

"I thought you didn't need to know my secrets." He raised a brow, as if challenging her.

Ariadne sputtered. "That's not a _secret,_ it's just a general fact! Something you would know about any friend. Or wouldn't you, Mr. I-Never-Give-Anything-Away?"

That made him smile. "Depends on your point of view. Miss Curiosity."

She shook her head, leaning back in her chair and grinning reluctantly back. "I'm sure you know all about _me,_ " she pointed out. "Turnabout is fair play."

Arthur snickered and rolled down his sleeves, fastening the cuffs carefully. "Why don't you find out? Investigate the investigator."

Ariadne sat up, mouth quirking at his confidence. "Are you sure you want to do that? I have…resources." More than he was expecting, she was willing to bet.

"Be my guest," Arthur said easily. "We'll have another session this weekend, if you feel up to it."

"Definitely." Ariadne balanced her totem on her palm, making it wobble and then steadying it. "I may know all about you by then."

"We'll see." He locked the case away in its cupboard and headed for the door. "Don't forget to lock up."

"Mm-hmm." She reached for the notebook close at hand, and heard the door close quietly behind her. Smiling wider, she went for her laptop instead; it was just coming up on morning in Nevada, but Archie worked the night shift and she knew he'd still be up. _Be careful what you ask for, Arthur._

* * *

Being an extractor meant a lot of down time in between jobs. Arthur liked it, the mix of intense activity followed by stretches of peace; it gave him space to think, and to please himself. He did more than sing; he invested some of his take, he visited gyms and shooting ranges, he spent hours at libraries to feed his eternal curiosity. He loved to visit museums - Paris had _lots_ \- and to occasionally buy himself a fine suit, or a fine meal. Once in a while he would even visit a friend, if he happened to be in the right country.

But without Dom, he was essentially solitary. Arthur knew he was free to drop in on his old partner at any time, but it was no longer the same without the piquancy of working together. Dom lived in a different world now, solid all the way through.

He attended the Opéra National de Paris on a regular basis, steeping himself in the music, but found himself wondering partway through _Le Triptyque_ what Ariadne would make of it. Disturbed, he made himself stay to the end, but it was hard to concentrate around the thought of the small figure in the seat next to him, admiring the architecture -

Dom would tease him, Arthur knew, with the gentle, knowing smile of someone who understood being half of a whole - Mal's phrase, that had been. But Dom also understood why Arthur avoided relationships, why he kept his life free of entanglements.

It wasn't that he avoided all human contact. There were times, and there were places; discreet, expensive places, where the women met Arthur's two unbreakable rules - they were free of disease, and they were never coerced. He paid a good deal for the privilege, but it suited him. An evening spent as the focus of someone charming and beautiful, release without complications - that was exactly the way he liked it.

But he couldn't shake Ariadne from his thoughts, even when they were apart.

_What is the most resilient parasite?_

_Walk away,_ he told himself. _There are other architects._

But he'd told her he'd teach her, and he tried not to break his word.

Sometimes, promises were a pain in the ass.

* * *

It was three days before they met again. The top-floor studio wasn't quite as expansive as their previous Paris space, or as leak-free as the loft in Helsinki, but it was serving well enough as a quiet and private place to Dream. When Arthur arrived, he found Ariadne seated at the worn table as if she hadn't left, tapping a pen against her lips and staring at her sketchbook.

Arthur hung his jacket up tidily. "You're early."

"Thomas Arthur Chase," Ariadne drawled, and he froze at the sound of his given name, unspoken for years. "Born and raised in Los Angeles, attended Queen of the Valley High School. Both parents deceased, one brother living."

Arthur made himself step forward. "Not bad," he said, forcing his voice to stay casual. "Who did you - "

"Arrested numerous times for theft, fraud, passing on stolen goods, assault," she continued, looking up at him gravely. "You have two convictions, but you haven't served any time. Just probation."

 _So much for not finding much._ Arthur grimaced. Theft had come easy to him; combining that with Dreaming had required another catalyst, but the principles were basically the same. But he'd never grubbed around on Eames' pickpocketing level. Working for fencing gangs in Los Angeles had given him a sense of how and when to use force, an increased distaste for chaos, and the skills of both a researcher and a right-hand man. Moving to the world of the Dream had held an elegance that he still appreciated. "I was a minor."

Ariadne leaned an elbow on the table. "You have police records in quite a few countries, but the only one that has an outstanding warrant for you is Kenya."

He reached for a chair, pulled it out slowly, sat down. "Cobol Engineering. They're still pissed at me." _And Cobb, no doubt._

"I'm impressed." Ariadne capped the pen and let it roll gently across the table. "You seem to have a positive genius for getting out of trouble."

"So am I," Arthur retorted. "That must be some source."

She shrugged. "A friend of a friend who works for law enforcement." Propping her chin on her fist, she regarded him seriously. "He didn't tell me what I really wanted to know, though."

Arthur frowned quellingly at her, but in the end he had to ask. "Which is?"

Her smile bloomed. "What do you do for _fun?_ "

That startled a laugh out of him, and on impulse Arthur answered honestly. "I sing opera."

" _Seriously?"_ Ariadne straightened, looking astonished. "Like, performances?"

"No, no." He laughed again at the idea. "Just the music, by myself. For, as you say, fun." Her eyes remained wide, and he shrugged awkwardly. "There's not as much solo music for baritones as for tenors, but there's enough to keep me busy. I usually rent practice space nearby."

"That is so _cool._ " Ariadne grinned. "Is it hard?"

"Yes. It's supposed to be." He thought for a moment. "It's a form of stress relief. I have to concentrate wholly on the music; it doesn't leave room to worry about anything else." It was difficult, but he loved it. It required precision and control, and demanded perfection.

"Wow." Ariadne shook her head. "I never would have guessed."

"I know." Arthur's fingers found his totem in his pocket and pulled it out; its tiny heft and polished corners were familiar and reassuring. Going on impulse, he looked up again. "What do _you_ do for fun?"

She snickered at his mock-challenging look. "I bake, actually. Usually cookies."

"Really?" He bounced the die gently on his palm. "And why have I never seen evidence of this habit?"

"I didn't say I was _good_ at it." Ariadne's eyes sparkled.

Arthur snorted. "I have to insist that you prove that assertion. It will probably require multiple samples."

That made her laugh again, the charming giggle he was starting to listen for. "So that's it? You bake cookies?" he asked.

"Like you sing? No, I also read, and draw." Ariadne shrugged again. "Sometimes I go out with friends, but they always want to close down the clubs and I get tired after just a couple hours of dancing."

The idea exploded in his brain, Ariadne in club gear - short skirt, fancy top - dancing in a crowd of strangers with her eyes closed as she absorbed the beat -

He wished viciously that Eames' taunt was wholly true.

"Let's do this," he said abruptly, dropping his totem back in his pocket and ignoring the flicker of confusion on her face.

He kept the Dream as business-like as possible, accepting Ariadne's London scenario but bringing in as many projections as he could manage. His mood seemed to help them manifest, but they were slow to become aggressive, and he wasn't sure whether it was Ariadne's increasing skill or his own subversive yearning that was sabotaging his efforts. It made his temper worse.

But waking seemed to dissipate the irritation, dispelling it with the drugged sleep. Arthur stared at the ceiling for a moment before sitting up.

Ariadne was already freeing herself from the machine and rubbing her cheek; one of the subs had slapped her just before the session had ended. She was, Arthur saw, very carefully not looking at him.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately, and - " He stumbled over the words; he _never_ got a lot of sleep.

Ariadne held up a hand. "You don't have to explain," she said. "But, thank you for the apology."

Her face was grave, and he felt no better. Ariadne's mouth quirked. "Arthur, I appreciate what you're doing for me, I really do. It's really kind of you. But I'll be out of your hair soon, won't I?"

"Yes." He was compelled to honesty again. "Not yet, but you're getting there. A couple more sessions and you'll have it."

"All right." She rose, tugging her sweater down. "I'm going to head home. Call me when you want to set up another session."

There was nothing to say. He watched her as she shrugged into her coat, tugged a hat over her ears, scooped up her bag; then she was gone, the door thudding shut behind her.

_Stop it, you idiot._

Arthur pushed to his feet and shut down the machine.

* * *

She had to wait a long time in the chilly evening, but Ariadne's patience was rewarded when Arthur finally emerged from the workshop, locking the door behind him and setting off up the street with his usual long-legged stride. She fell in behind him, trying to stay close enough to keep him in sight, and feeling terribly conspicuous; but apparently he couldn't feel her eyes on his back, because he never turned around.

_Not getting sleep, my ass. What is your **problem** , Arthur?_

He didn't go far; just a few blocks and around a corner. The apartment building at which he stopped was old and mellow, and Ariadne's heart sank when she saw him use a key to get in. She had to wait almost fifteen minutes before someone else entered; fortunately, the elderly woman didn't object when Ariadne smiled at her and slipped in behind.

There was a rank of old-fashioned brass mailboxes set into the wall. Ariadne scanned them quickly; none of the names were familiar, but only one of the labels was blank under the apartment number. _There you are._

She climbed the stairs to the third floor slowly. This was definitely invading his privacy, but he was driving her up the _wall._ One minute a teacher, the next a stranger; teasing and cold in equal measures. If it had been anyone else, she would have brushed it off as a personality quirk, but it was Arthur. Who was the one person she couldn't categorize, who kept her attention, who made her blood hum when she looked at him.

She wanted to know - to understand.

The third-floor hallway was narrow, its lights dim behind amber shades. Ariadne walked silently along it until she reached 308, and as she approached she could hear that Arthur had finished his warm-up exercises.

The sound was faint. She leaned cautiously against the door, then slid down to sit and press her ear against it.

His voice was, unsurprisingly, beautiful, and deep enough to make something in her middle vibrate in response. Ariadne had no idea what he was singing, except that it seemed to be in Italian; but it didn't matter. The music flowed through her, carrying away thought, and she stripped off her gloves and laid her hands against the door too, as if she could absorb the sound that way.

He sang three pieces, and she listened to each one, feeling her perception of him widen. The emotion behind the music was palpable. _That's a lot more than stress relief._

When the last note died away, it was like emerging from a trance. Ariadne realized that if she didn't want to fall into the room when he opened the door, she had better move. Standing made her aware that her feet had fallen asleep, but she half-ran down the stairs anyway, her head full of music.

She had her hand on the door to the street when she realized that she'd left her gloves upstairs. Impulse sent her out into the night just the same. _Let him find them._

It only seemed fair.


	5. Mercy Me

The practice went well. Ariadne was capable of creating almost anything she wanted now, and could fix the details firmly, with nothing sliding out of place. When they surfaced, the sun was setting, and Arthur felt his stomach growl; the cookies Ariadne had brought, while actually delicious, hadn't lasted long. He opened his mouth to suggest they break for dinner, then closed it when Ariadne tossed aside her leads and grabbed a notebook. "What is it?"

"Idea," she mumbled, sketching rapidly. He watched for a moment, unwilling to interrupt whatever inspiration had struck, but his stomach spoke again, and he sighed.

"I'm going to go get some takeout. Do you have a preference?"

Ariadne made a noise he took to be negative, still drawing, and Arthur snickered and left her in peace. She would eat anything, usually with enthusiasm; he'd lost a bet with himself when she'd devoured two helpings of tripe stew the week before.

When he returned, arms full of bags, she was asleep.

Not Dreaming; the machine still sat inert on the table. Ariadne was slumped awkwardly in her chair, head lolling and one hand still on the notebook. He set down the bags and moved closer to watch her.

She looked younger, asleep; a half-grown child even though he knew she was a true adult, cheeks flushed and her dented mouth slack. Eames' nickname for her crossed his mind, and it did fit; the dark hair, the roses-and-cream complexion, the curve of her smile probably had any number of young men wishing for a dragon to slay for her.

But while his hormones had more to say about that than Arthur was comfortable with, it was the sharp mind behind the dark eyes that held his attention - her wit, her humor, her drive, her half-shy compassion. Her dedication to her craft, and to ferreting out the truth. He could appreciate that last in particular; after all, it was what _he_ did for every job.

Even if it wasn't comfortable. Her gloves, impossibly small and improbably, fuzzily, magenta, were tucked into the pocket of his overcoat. Arthur still had no idea why he hadn't confronted her about them, about trailing him to his practice space - and how had he _missed_ her - and listening outside. Sometimes he thought it was cowardice; at others, he suspected he was trying to keep her as off-balance as she made him feel.

Either way, he hadn't returned the gloves.

The urge to just brush the hair out of her eyes made his fingers twitch. It would be easy, detangling the strand from her lashes; so small a thing.

 _No,_ he told himself. _You know better._

Setting his jaw, he reached out to wake her, but as he did, his eyes caught on the silver case.

It was unethical. He knew it. But she'd done the same to him, in a way, listening outside his door, and he knew she'd invaded Cobb's Dreams more than once. And he was suddenly very, very curious.

She didn't move when he picked up her thin wrist, didn't even twitch when he slid the needles in. He prepped himself and sat down in the next chair, wondering what he would find; the sedative tended to normalize dreams, making them less random, but the effect was lessened in a dream already begun -

It was an ordinary house, with what seemed to be ordinary sunshine coming in the windows, and Ariadne, back towards him, was talking to an older woman who was mixing something in a bowl in the big farmhouse-style kitchen. The details were fuzzy, as was to be expected, but the dream exuded both safety and restraint.

He paused, just absorbing the atmosphere. The woman was, he guessed, Ariadne's mother - not so much by how she looked, though she had the same dark hair, but from the emotions that filled the kitchen like water - love and frustration.

The woman was talking about the eggs she was whisking, and Ariadne kept trying to interrupt, without success. Arthur rocked on his feet, and inserted a quiet word into the conversation. "Nice place."

The woman didn't notice him at all, being a dream artifact. For a moment, he thought Ariadne wouldn't either, but then she turned around, frowning, eyes vague. "She won't listen to you either, you know. She never does."

Her sleeping brain was interpreting him as part of her dream. Arthur shook his head. "Ariadne, it's me. I'm real."

Her gaze slowly sharpened, and then she blinked. _"Arthur?"_

"Yep."

The outrage was quick to appear, and quick to fade, replaced with a wry impatience. "And you call _me_ curious. What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Probably the same thing you were doing mucking around in Cobb's Dreams."

Behind Ariadne's shoulder, the woman disappeared; around them both, the kitchen grew a little clearer. "What, you think my subconscious is out to get us?" Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Please."

Arthur raised both brows. "There are hidden traps in everyone's subconscious. The trick is staying in control enough to avoid them."

Ariadne propped her hands on her hips. "You've spent weeks teaching me control. Is this some kind of weird final exam?"

"No, not exactly." Arthur regarded her. "Your control is good. But this is different, here; it's a natural dream, mostly. You're not addicted to the machine…yet."

Ariadne looked around uneasily. "I guess. I don't really feel like playing with it, though."

"It seems kind of heavy," he agreed. "Does it always get dark this fast?" The sunlight that had been pouring in was gone, replaced by black night.

Ariadne glanced back over her shoulder, then snatched her hands up to her mouth. "No, no, _no!_ " She whirled back. "I just remembered where this goes - Arthur, you have to get out of here - "

"It's a recurring dream?" He took a step closer, intrigued by her alarm.

" _Yes!_ It's a _nightmare_ , it always happens like this, I can't stop it - you have to _go_ \- "

He caught her arms gently, looking down into eyes wide with panic. _"Easy._ Easy, Ariadne. Relax. You think I haven't dealt with nightmares before?"

"I don't _care_ what you've done!" She swallowed hard, peering past his shoulder. _"You don't want to find out what happens next!"_

"Actually, I'm curious." The handgun was a reassuring presence at his waist, and he couldn't imagine a monster, human or otherwise, that could survive a bullet between the eyes. Any imagining of hers couldn't match the formless drowning terror of his own _pavōrēs nocturnus_.

The cold that suddenly filled the air came from behind him, and Ariadne moaned and yanked him forward, swinging him around her pivot so he faced the other direction. Behind him was an ordinary door in the kitchen wall, but through that door blackness was flooding the room, flowing towards them. With it came absolute, hopeless horror.

 _Well, you certainly didn't imagine **this**._ Arthur stared at the stuff in dismay, realizing that a bullet wasn't going to help.

" _I can't stop it!"_ Ariadne shrieked, and Arthur realized that while he could feel her fear the way he had the other emotions, it wasn't affecting him nearly as much. She was lost in pure panic, frozen as the darkness oozed closer.

The leading edge of it touched the cuff of her jeans, and she began to scream. Arthur's hand moved towards his gun, and then he changed his mind. It was a simple, easy matter to gather her to him and wrap his arm around her shoulders; too easy.

He braced her, and with one quick movement snapped her neck.

Ariadne went limp in his arms, and then vanished. Arthur felt the dream tremble around him -

\- But it didn't disintegrate.

The blackness curled around his ankles, lapping higher, and the horror broke in on him in an excruciating wave. Arthur stared down at it, as paralyzed as Ariadne had been, feeling his heart racing faster and faster. _Maybe not the best idea -_

The world lurched sideways.

The floor was hard and cold under him. Arthur blinked at the table legs not far from his nose, then rolled to his back to see Ariadne standing over him, dead pale but for the spots of rage centering each cheek. "You _idiot!_ "

"Probably," Arthur mumbled, sitting up and fumbling dizzily at the leads in his wrist. Judging from the overturned chair next to him, Ariadne had woken him by the simple expedient of tipping him out of it.

"Why didn't you just _shoot_ yourself?" Ariadne raged, swatting her totem so hard it tumbled over on the table. Her hands were trembling, Arthur noticed, and she bore a smear of blood where she'd ripped her lines out. His own heart was still thudding far too fast. "Do you know what that stuff _does?_ "

"No, and I don't care if I never find out." He let out a measured breath, reaching for control. The best way to calm her was to distract her, so Arthur held out a hand.

Ariadne halted to glare at him, but finally took it and pulled him to his feet. He maintained the grip, turning her wrist for a better look. "Hold still, this needs to be cleaned."

"I can do it myself." She jerked, but he didn't let go, reaching out his free hand for the first aid kit on the table. _"Arthur."_

"All right." He released her, turning both hands palm-out. "You do it."

She blew out a breath, and grabbed an alcohol wipe from the kit, ripping it clumsily open and applying it to her torn skin. "Ow."

"Be more careful next time," he admonished, knowing it would get a rise from her, and got his own wipe.

"Me? _Me_ be more careful? Between Cobb harboring Mal and Eames chucking bombs around, I thought _you_ were supposed to be the careful one!" Ariadne snarled at him, fingers pressing into her wrist.

"How was I supposed to know it was going to turn into a nightmare?" Arthur pointed out logically. The alcohol's burn was familiar, and by this time reassuring. "Do you always have such…unstructured dreams?"

"Like I'd tell you. If you really want to find out, come back in, and next time I'll just _leave_ you there." She tossed the wipe into the trash and stared down at her wrist; it was still oozing blood, but barely.

"I might." Arthur selected a bandaid from the kit and peeled it open, then held out his hand. "May I?"

Ariadne's lips twisted sourly, but she extended her arm. Arthur fastened the bandaid carefully over the wound, smoothing its edges down with his thumbs.

"Do you have nightmares?" she asked, her voice calmer. Arthur didn't look up, letting his touch linger at the border between slick plastic and smooth skin.

"Yes. But I don't remember them." The machine had done nothing for him; he still woke in fear but without knowledge. "That's the other aspect of control in the Dream. Nightmares are disasters."

"Does that even happen?" Her hand lay still in his, tactile permission, but Arthur made himself let go again, turning away to start shutting down the machine.

"Very rarely. The results aren't pretty." He shook his head. "The stability of shared Dreaming can make it very hard to escape a nightmare. I know of one extractor who died of heart failure because of it."

"The sedative." Out of the corner of his eye he saw her nod. "Makes sense."

He retracted the lines and closed the case. Ariadne blew out her breath and shook herself, like a bird fluffing its feathers, and he bit his lip against a smirk at the image. "How did you get into this, anyway? To go from, what, 'big-ticket items' to dream-theft?"

"You just don't give up, do you?" He chose to be amused. "Let's eat, and maybe I'll tell you."

Ariadne could be impatient, but for once she waited while they opened the cartons and shared out the food; it smelled good, and Arthur was willing to bet that she was as hungry as he was. And one of the side benefits of extraction was learning all the best take-out places within range of a given workshop.

He waited until he was halfway through his curry. "I 'got into' Dreaming, as you put it, when my twin and I were enrolled in an experimental study back in the early Nineties." He waved a fork at her, forestalling her comment. "We're fraternal. Eric and I are nothing alike."

Ariadne swallowed her mouthful. "Go on."

Arthur poked at his dinner, his appetite diminishing. "I had…night terrors. Way past the usual age, and pretty severe. Dreaming was just getting going as a medical treatment, and we were recruited for the study because Eric _didn't_ have them. We were part of a large set of twin groups."

Ariadne frowned. "But if you're fraternal, then why - "

He shrugged. "We were very close at the time, pretty inseparable even though we were so different. Depending on each other, I guess. Our home life was…kind of unstable, so we banded together. Didn't last, though." He took another bite, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed. "Anyway, the study was inconclusive, but when the machines started getting commercially produced and the extraction market opened up, I was recruited because I already knew the ropes, so to speak."

Ariadne regarded him steadily, as if she knew how much he was leaving out - the stomach-churning terror that had no cause, his brother's accusation that Arthur's need was too much to handle, the tearing hurt of losing the one person who knew him best. He returned the look blandly. _That's all you're getting._

It wouldn't satisfy her, he knew; curiosity such as hers was never truly satisfied. But it would keep her from pestering him.

"And because you were a thief?" she asked finally, reaching for her napkin.

"Well. It didn't hurt that I was already on the other side of the law," Arthur admitted. "The money's better here, though."

For some reason that made her laugh, sputtering into the paper, and he grinned back.

After they'd finished, though, Ariadne sobered, and Arthur caught her staring at the machine as she absently collected empty containers. He almost told her to go back under - violent death was common in extractions, and she would just have to get used to it - but then reconsidered when he remembered the oozing blackness. It was practicality, he told himself; neither of them really needed to deal with a practice Dream warping into horror, not with only two people to control things. "Why don't you head home?" he suggested instead.

Ariadne's head snapped up, her expression a blend of guilt and relief. "Are you sure?"

Arthur shrugged. "We've done enough for one session."

She bit her lip and looked back down at the boxes. "I am pretty tired."

It wasn't even fiction, he thought, not if she'd fallen asleep over her notebook earlier. "Go home," he repeated.

She stuffed the containers into the trash and nodded, still not looking at him. "Okay."

He busied himself with tidying as Ariadne gathered her bag and notebook and pulled on her coat, but her voice reached him from the door. "Arthur."

He glanced up. "Hmm?"

"Thanks." Her gaze was bleak. "For waking me up."

Arthur gave her half a smile. "You're welcome."

The door closed behind her, and he wondered, absurdly, if she missed her gloves.

* * *

I don't know what to think. That was the problem. Ariadne sat curled up on her little futon, as always ignoring the cramped dimensions of the little flat as best she could, and chewed over the mystery that was T. Arthur Chase. _Every time I think I have him figured out, he shifts again._

Remarkably like a dream, come to think of it. It made her wonder; did changing one's _self_ in a Dream alert the subject's projections? Eames had done it, but they'd been surrounded already, and -

She jerked her attention back to the subject at hand. There was still so much she didn't know about Dreaming, and she suspected that the others hadn't told her some things simply because they were so used to such details that it never occurred to them that she might not know.

 _Arthur._ It was hard, now, to recall exactly what had happened during her nightmare; like most natural dreams, the memory had blurred quickly, a mercy for which Ariadne was grateful. But she still retained the small, precise detail of a hard arm across her collarbone and fingers pressing just above her ear, and the tiny, jarring sound -

She shuddered. Archie had told her Arthur's record, and it was easy to extrapolate from that; _assault_ could mean almost anything. And she knew that extractors killed each other to escape from dreams when it became necessary, though she hadn't yet seen it happen.

She had to wonder why he hadn't just shot _her,_ let alone himself.

What a strange profession it was, where the greatest act of mercy might be to kill a friend.

Ariadne pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees and staring blindly at the now-ironic _Belvedere_ print on the opposite wall. She'd already died in a dream once, and the first time had been worse. Doing it again - _You'd better get used to it, if you mean to keep going._ Whether she participated in an actual extraction or not, the possibility of things going wrong was always there. It was all in the planning, as one of her instructors had said; the more factors you take into account in the design stage, the longer the result can last.

 _So strange._ Not just that Arthur had cared enough to walk into her dream - and any outrage she might feel was smothered by the guilty knowledge that she'd done the same and worse to Cobb - but that he'd gotten her _out_ of it.

 _You can trust him._ It was a truth she was a little uncomfortable in facing, but it was there. Attraction, sure, curiosity always, but she'd told herself that she couldn't really depend on someone so enigmatic.

Except that when it came down to it, he'd rescued her. When she hadn't expected it, couldn't have asked for it, couldn't even remember that rescue was possible.

Ariadne knew she could be impulsive. She preferred to call it _intuitive,_ because more often than not her off-the-cuff decisions worked out to her advantage. And whatever supplied those split-second choices was telling her that she could rely on Arthur for more than just lessons in control.

What _more_ might turn out to be was another question entirely. Ariadne sighed, uncoiled, and lay back, reaching up one arm to shut off the lamp on the bookcase next to the futon. _Maybe…_

* * *

The chime of her cellphone jarred her half-awake, and Ariadne squinted automatically at the curtains covering the window, looking for dawn. It wasn't there, and she fumbled for the device, blinking at its light as she opened the connection. "B'jour?"

"Can you pack up the workshop for me?"

Arthur's cool tone brought her awake, and Ariadne sat up in the darkness. "What?"

"The workshop. I need you to close it down and ship me the machines. Can you do that?"

Confused, Ariadne glanced over at the digital clock next to the lamp; it was just past one in the morning. "Right now?"

"This afternoon's fine. Let me give you the address."

Ariadne squeezed her eyes shut, focusing. "Go ahead."

The address he recited was in Seville; she memorized it the same way she did other such details, a gift she'd had all her life and one that meant she didn't have to keep an address book. "I'll pay you back," he added.

Ariadne sighed impatiently. "Oh please. Arthur, what the hell? I thought we had one more lesson at least, and why are you calling me at - "

"Cobol," he interrupted, one short hard word. "Apparently they've finally gotten around to taking exception to the job Cobb and I muffed. I need to get out of town for a while."

Scenarios whipcracked through her brain - attackers, assassins, shots fired from cover. "You - are you all _right?_ "

His voice thawed slightly. "I'm okay, there were only two of them. I just need to go to ground."

"Arthur - " She felt helpless, and didn't like it. "You're just going to disappear, just like that?"

His half-smile materialized in her imagination. "Just like that."

She almost asked him to at least call and tell her when he was safe, but pride stopped the words and Arthur continued. "Listen. It's easy to tell you not to let this put you off, but maybe you should. Extraction _is_ illegal, and it can be very dangerous. Not just in the Dream."

Ariadne sniffed. "That's obvious."

"Well, think about it. You know…with a kit of your own, you could still build."

 _Oh, sure._ As if that would satisfy, now that she'd done so much more. She shook her head even if he couldn't see her. "Creation without purpose is hollow, Arthur. But...I'll keep it in mind."

"Good." He sighed, a faint rush of air. "Ariadne…"

"Yeah?"

"I owe you one."

And she had to smile. "Yeah, you do."


	6. Rare and Precious

His face hurt. Arthur ran his tongue over the cut on the inside of his cheek once more, and was silently grateful that most of the bruises didn't show. Two opponents were no real challenge to someone who'd been an expert street fighter before he'd even cleared adolescence, but surprise had let the thugs get a few shots in first.

He strolled along the sunny beach, doing his best to appear the tourist in scruffy shorts and an "I heart Rio" shirt, one of anonymous hundreds enjoying the sand and surf. It had been most…dismaying…to be waylaid between his practice room and his hotel, a dark street and two shadows and the sudden chilly kiss of a gun muzzle pressed beneath his ear. The two men had escorted him into the nearest alley, and Arthur still wasn't sure if they'd meant to kill him or just rough him up; the roll of their accents had told him that they were from Kenya, and their attitudes had told him that they relied too heavily on fear and their handguns.

He'd left them alive, and figured that they would most likely wake before they took too much damage from the cold. And he'd told Ariadne the truth; he had no more than bruises, though they'd come close to cracking his ribs.

Given the crowds, it was hard to tell if he was being followed, but after about a half-mile's walk Arthur decided that any tail was not close enough to overhear, and he reached into his pocket. There was no such thing as truly secure communication, but the cellphone was disposable and he was sure that Cobol already knew Dom's location - it wasn't like the man was hiding.

Still, Arthur intended to keep the call short. He listened to the rings, hoping that neither of the kids picked up -

"Hello?"

It was Dom. Arthur closed his eyes in relief; a small part of him had feared that Cobol had struck at him as well despite the company being very _persona non grata_ with the U.S. government. "Hey. It's me."

"Arthur. It's good to hear from you." There was pleasure in Dom's voice. "James has been asking about you. How's it going?"

"Not good," Arthur replied brusquely. "Did you ever mend fences with Cobol?"

There was a pause, and then - " _Dammit,"_ Dom hissed. "Are you all right?"

"For the moment. But they came after me after months of nothing, and I wasn't hard to find. You might want to get those kids under cover." He didn't think Cobol would use the children to make a point, but they offered leverage and accidents did happen, particularly in hostage situations.

"Right." Dom's tone was tight. "Do you have something planned?"

Arthur glanced around, but none of the sunbathers within eyeshot were paying any attention, and most weren't wearing enough to conceal a weapon anyway. "Reopen negotiations."

"Another job, at a discount?" Dom asked.

"Why not? I don't like having to watch my back awake too."

Dom laughed a little. "Let me know how it goes."

"I'll do that." The stopwatch in his head was ticking down. "We'll talk later."

"Be careful," Dom admonished, and disconnected.

Arthur hit the "off" button, then slipped the phone into his pants pocket - he would dispose of it later, in pieces - and wondered how hard it would be to talk Cobol out of revenge.

As it happened, it was easier than he anticipated. Negotiating with Cobol was a ticklish process, but Arthur was used to it; it wasn't that much different from setting up an extraction deal, after all. The most tedious part of the process was getting access to the right person.

As he made phone calls and waited for responses, he wondered what Ariadne was doing. Classes, sure, but Christmas was coming, and now she could afford to go home for the holiday if she wanted to. Would she? Or would she celebrate on her own in the City of Lights?

When the answer came from Cobol, it was more than he'd expected. Arthur sat in his tiny Rio motel room and stared at the printout until the words blurred and he could no longer make out the terms.

The company was giving him one last chance. Complete the job, and their black mark would be erased. Fail, and the next set of thugs would shoot to kill. Cobol did not take non-delivery of goods lightly.

The job itself wasn't an issue. Arthur had every intention of taking it; with Cobol's censure, and without Dom, he would have a hard time finding more extraction work anyway. He was good, but most extractors would be wary of working with someone who had made an enemy out of such a powerful corporation, now that Cobol had decided to take notice.

 _And there's the problem._ To fulfill this job, he would need a team of his own. And unlike Dom, he would be fully forthcoming about the risks involved.

_Eames would do. And if not him, then another - there's plenty of good thieves._

But architects were much harder to obtain. It was a rare skill, and it was only Dom's reputation that had managed to secure them Nash for the original job.

_He was a weasel, but he was **good**. Most of the time._

The practical part of him reminded him that there was an architect readily available, one who would most likely be eager to accept the assignment.

"No," he muttered to himself. "It's too dangerous."

 _Too dangerous?_ the inner voice inquired. _To her, or to you?_

He didn't know, and that was the worst part.

* * *

Going back to ordinary life was, oddly enough, easier the second time. Ariadne figured it was because she had hopes of further work in Dream design; the second job and the practices with Arthur seemed less a fantasy and more a solid, if bizarre, series of events. She settled into the routine of classes and tried not to worry too much about Arthur's safety, telling herself that he was an old hand at skinning out of trouble. But it was immensely frustrating to realize that, once again, she had absolutely no way to contact him.

_In fact, if he gets himself killed, I'll never know._

Packing up the workshop had been an afternoon's task; Ariadne had settled the machines in their shipping crates, locked the latter carefully, and sent them off to Spain as requested before tidying up the space, collecting stray papers, coffee mugs, cufflinks, and pens. She'd managed to wait almost two weeks before giving in to the urge to track down the Seville address in person, but it had been only a post office box, and her Spanish wasn't up to finding out what happened to any packages that arrived there.

But she'd barely gotten back to Paris when her phone rang again.

**x**

"Here's the proposal." Arthur handed out the dossiers, and Ariadne took hers, glad that they'd managed to secure a better workshop this time; it was less drafty than the last, for one thing. "Maureen Fitzhugh was a top-level Cobol executive until she quit without giving notice five months ago, which violated her contract. Cobol wants us to retrieve a set of engineering plans from her mind, since that seems to be the only location of a complete copy."

"Ah, internecine warfare," Eames drawled, balancing his chair on its two back legs and opening the folder lazily. "How nice."

"War's exactly what it will be," Arthur said bluntly. "She's been trained against extraction. Her subs will be armed and dangerous."

Ariadne, sitting cross-legged on one of the chaises longue, flipped slowly through the pages, excited but trying not to show it. "Then how do we get her to give up the plans?"

Arthur raised his brows. "By repeating Cobb's trick. Just two layers," he added as both Eames and Ariadne drew in breath to protest. "Sedation levels will be normal."

"They'd better be," Eames muttered.

"Will that be enough?" Ariadne asked, puzzled. "Aren't deeper dreams more fragile?"

"Yes," Arthur admitted. "But if we're careful and the doses are calibrated correctly, we should be fine. A dream within a dream isn't _that_ unusual."

Ariadne smirked. "'Have you the wing?'" she murmured, but he ignored her.

"You've done this before," Eames said, half a question. "We'd need more personnel."

"I'm hoping to avoid it," Arthur said, leaning back against the table behind him. "If I can convince Yusuf to watch over us topside, you can take the first layer and Ariadne and I can escort Ms. Fitzhugh deeper. Assuming, of course - " He turned to Ariadne. " - That you're willing."

"I thought architects usually don't go into the Dream," Ariadne said, surprised. The thought was intriguing, to participate again instead of just creating -

"That's because they have more sense, darling," Eames murmured sardonically.

Arthur let that pass. "Some do, some don't. The first architect Cobb and I worked with, Rostand, went in on every job."

"Yes, and he's a nutter," Eames noted, glancing over at Ariadne and frowning judiciously. "He kept trying to invent a machine to connect Dreamers wirelessly."

 _Huh._ "And he went crazy when it failed?" Ariadne asked skeptically.

"No, he succeeded. That's why he's mad." Arthur shrugged, his expression cool.

"Dreams polluted by the random thoughts of whoever's passing by? Bad idea," Eames said in a stage whisper.

 _Ugh. Okay, yeah, not good._ "Why shouldn't I stay on the first level, then? I mean, Eames has more experience Dreaming."

"Can you handle a gun?" Arthur asked dryly. "As I said, the projections will be heavily militarized. Whoever stays on the first level will have to hold them off until we finish."

"Oh." Ariadne deflated. "I suppose shooting cans with my brother's .22 doesn't count."

Arthur shook his head, smiling slightly. "There's one thing more," he added, straightening and tugging his vest down. "This job has an extra element of danger."

"Cobol," Eames said, pursing his lips.

Arthur nodded slowly, locking his gaze with Ariadne's. "This job is intended to get the price off my head, but if we don't complete it, they will extend it to _all_ of us. And they're nobody to screw with."

She didn't flinch. _I figured._

"We'll just have to succeed, then, won't we?" On some level Ariadne knew that agreeing to this was reckless in the extreme, but she didn't care, not if it involved Dreaming. Arthur opened his mouth, and she raised a finger. "And don't you dare tell me I don't know what I'm getting into. I'm an adult, Arthur, I make my own choices."

"Hear, hear," Eames drawled. When Arthur turned to frown at him, he smirked back. "I'm in."

"There you go, a team," Ariadne added. At that moment, inspiration arrived, and she pointed at Eames, reaching for the notebook on the table. "Can you drive a tank?"

Eames brought his chair down with a bang, face lighting up. "Tanks? Bloody hell, I think I love you."

Arthur shook his head again, looking distinctly taken aback. "A _tank?_ "

Ariadne sketched rapidly on a fresh notebook page, mind racing. "Think about it. If her projections are combat-ready, let's put them into a combat situation. It'll keep them busy while we deal with her."

"You're not thinking of bringing in our own projections, are you?" Eames asked warily. "That's always a _very_ bad idea, you know."

"No, no." Ariadne shuddered, remembering Dom's projection of Mal all too well. "But there's alternatives, you know. Mines, booby-traps, automated gun nests - I could even do robots - "

"Even better," Arthur said suddenly. "If we can catch up to Fitzhugh before her projections do, we can turn her against them."

Eames blinked, then smiled, a slow cat's grin. "Arthur, I do believe I have to retract my statement. You _do_ have an imagination after all."

Ariadne looked up. "You mean, make her afraid of them?"

"Make her think they're her enemies," Arthur corrected. "If we protect her from them, we'll have no trouble setting up the second level."

"Ooh." The idea was downright seductive. "That's _sneaky._ "

"Land mines," Eames added, and they were off.

* * *

The team pulled together better than Arthur had dared to hope. He wasn't at all sure about his ability to _lead_ one, especially when it consisted of a snarky, irreverent forger and an overly impulsive architect, but once he'd made the decision to offer them the job, he had to step up. He'd asked around for other architects, but none of those available were good enough. In the end, he turned reluctantly to Ariadne once more.

Building a double dream was at least an order of magnitude more complicated than the usual sort, and Arthur did his best to conceal his doubts over whether the three of them really could pull one off. But it went well, at least in the planning stages. Ariadne designed a war-torn city complete with a tank for the top level, creating a complicated maze of ruined buildings and rubble-filled streets to delay attackers. She and Eames argued about gap widths and potential sniper perches until Arthur was ready to throw something at them both, but the end result was impressive.

The bottom level was quite different. "The plans are for a new kind of mining equipment," Ariadne explained as she cued up her laptop's display one evening. "So I created a mine."

The model rotated slowly on the screen, a snake's nest of wireframe tunnels edged in light. "I took a page from your book, Arthur," she added. "It's interiors only."

He leaned over her shoulder to trace a half-hidden Necker cube with a fingertip, and felt his lips turn up. "Paradox."

"It's incredibly useful," Ariadne said, nudging him with one elbow and making him aware of the warmth of her just inches away. "If we can get a few projections to believe in it…"

"That's usually how it works." Arthur inhaled silently, pulling in her scent - paper and shampoo and a hint of musk - before straightening and telling his unruly body to behave. "Have you ever actually been _in_ a mine?"

Ariadne grimaced. "Not a big commercial one - but I'd rather not use that kind anyway, it's too complex." She halted the wireframe's spin and made a minute alteration. "This owes more to the mines of the Eighteen-eighties than the modern kind, but we only have to be internally consistent, or so Eames keeps telling me."

"Close enough." It was one of the truisms of Dreams, as Cobb had always said - they _felt_ real, no matter how odd they got. The trick was keeping the target from _noticing_ the oddities.

"Well, if this meets with your approval I'll start working it up. I have to admit, it's fun to be working outside of a specific pattern for once."

"Pardon?" His body wasn't listening. It was moments like these that made Arthur aware of the differences in their sizes, how small Ariadne really was...delicate and tough at the same time, inviting both protection and deference. _Paradox._

Or was it?

"Buildings, cities - they all use logical patterns, usually grids," Ariadne said patiently. "A mine is dictated by the veins of ore inside it, so it's more or less random."

"Right." Arthur rubbed his jaw with one hand, forcing himself to focus. "What are we mining?"

She snickered. "Silver, I think. It fits with the motif, and it's nontoxic." Tapping the display once more she added, "I was tempted to use cobalt, but that's too obvious."

"You mean you're learning subtlety?" Arthur teased, and she elbowed him again.

"Bite me, Boss. Now go away and let me _refine_ this."

Arthur groaned, thumped her gently on the crown, and took himself out of temptation's reach, followed by her soft laughter.

* * *

Arthur watched Eames from the shadow of his newspaper, ignoring the other guests crossing the lobby of the exclusive hotel. The place was open and airy, glittering with glass, but the acoustics were off, making sounds echo oddly. _They should have hired Ariadne,_ he thought with amusement.

Behind the wide check-in desk, the concierge smiled deferentially at an arriving guest and beckoned a bellhop over to take her bags. Arthur folded his paper, stood, and sauntered over to the desk, peremptorily demanding the concierge's attention and beckoning the man down to the far end.

It was ridiculously simple to distract him with a question about the hotel bar while Eames slipped behind the desk and played with the computer. It was old-fashioned, but they didn't have a hacker on hand to break into the system remotely.

"Suite on the twentieth floor," he reported quietly to Arthur a few minutes later. "Unfortunately the other side's booked as well."

"It doesn't matter." Arthur squinted as they emerged into the bright, thin sunshine of the Belgian afternoon. "Next door is too obvious."

Eames slid on a pair of sunglasses. "I thought the idea was to leave her none the wiser."

"It's called a contingency plan, Eames." Arthur gave his claim ticket to the valet, who hurried off. "Now call Ariadne and tell her to book four rooms, all on different floors."

The forger sighed heavily, but obeyed, pulling out his phone and dialing with his thumb. "Hello, darling, the boss wants four of 'em, on separate floors. No, he didn't tell me…no, it doesn't make sense to me either, it's not like we'll have time to get up to anything naughty…well, it's not me footing the bill, is it? Yeah, I'll be sure and tell him that." He disconnected the call. "Says you're either really clever or crazier than Ivo Shandor."

Arthur snickered.

* * *

The real challenge, Ariadne thought, wasn't design or execution, but memorization.

She lay back on the chaise and stared up at the slightly cobwebby ceiling, going over the plans again. It was one thing to design a building, or a world, and quite another to _know_ it so well that she could call up almost every detail without reference to blueprint or plan. And Dream worlds were an order of magnitude more complex than the most meticulously designed building, even if their subconsciouses handled some of the fine detail.

Fortunately, one aspect of the sedatives they used seem to be a certain unity among Dreamers; somehow, the drugs made it easier for their brains to compromise on such details and form a single world, rather than having different versions fight it out for supremacy.

_Yeah, that'd be fun. Not._

Ariadne sighed and pushed herself upright. The workshop was usually quiet, unless they happened to be arguing about something, but it was silent now but for the faint sounds of the traffic outside; Arthur was out running errands and Eames was goodness knew where. The peace suited Ariadne at the moment; she normally liked having other people around, and both men were good to work with in their own ways, but on occasion solitude was better.

She sat for a while, considering the bottom-level maze and trying to decide whether it was complex enough. Projections were strange things; they had no more true individuality than the white blood cells Cobb had compared them to, but they _acted_ as though they did, and they had all the power of the subject's mind behind them. And Maureen Fitzhugh was no dummy.

_I guess we hope she's not into puzzle-solving._

Finally she rose and stretched, going back over to her work area and contemplating her model of the upper-level dream. It was finished, being the simpler part, and Eames had been studying it earlier, leaning over it at various angles and sometimes bending down to peer through the modeled blocks for a street-level view. He had a habit of touching the buildings occasionally, running fingers over them as if the feel helped him memorize, but since he was careful Ariadne didn't object.

Now, however, something caught her eye, and Ariadne frowned and leaned over the model for a closer look. And then had to laugh at the three little Lego figures, marching in line through the center of the model. The one in front bore a tiny gun; the second had a suit; and the third wore a minuscule scrap of a scarf around its neck.

Shaking her head, Ariadne reached for them, then changed her mind and decided to leave them where they were. _I wonder how long it took him to do that._

There was a new folder sitting on the edge of one of her tables, presumably one of Arthur's directives; he did love his manila. Ariadne opened it, noting that the tab was labeled "Costuming", and found a thin sheaf of photos inside, all of women's business suits. The sticky note attached to the inside of the folder bore Arthur's precise handwriting. _Something like this for the first stage,_ it read. _Professional is key._

Ariadne grimaced down at the outfits. "Not this again," she muttered. _What, does he have some kink for this stuff?_

"What's the matter?"

The question made her look up, and Ariadne realized that Arthur had returned; he was closing the door and regarding her curiously. Ariadne shut the folder and waved it at him. "You're kidding, right?"

Arthur frowned and walked over to her, adjusting his cuffs. "What's wrong with a suit? Eames may be playing busboy later but even he'll dress up to get in."

Ariadne huffed impatiently. "Arthur, I look like I'm younger than I am already. Put me in one of those conservative skirts you favor and I'll stick out like a sore thumb. It works in a Dream, maybe, but not in reality."

He blinked, nettled. "You'll stick out just as much dressed like you usually are. It's a very high-end hotel."

Ariadne smiled, feeling a certain petty pleasure at unsettling him. "Three words, Boss. Trust fund baby."

He wasn't quite sure how she talked him into it, but in the end Arthur had to let Ariadne have her way. Her proposed outfits would cost more than his original estimation, but not that much more, and it wasn't as though he hadn't set aside enough in the extraction budget. Eames had already purchased the clothes he would need, including the staff uniform he would need to get into Fitzhugh's hotel room.

"Have you ever thought about other applications for Dreaming?" Ariadne asked, her mind apparently gone off on a different tangent.

Arthur let out a long breath, trying to adjust his thinking. "The legitimate ones all require medical degrees or security clearances."

"True, but there are other…how did Cobb put it…not strictly legal options." Ariadne leaned back in her chair, idly rolling her totem between her fingers. "Ones that don't involve outright theft."

"Sure. Customized dream worlds. Those can go for very high prices." There was an entire industry based around them, in fact - not just the Dreams themselves, but also the participants - guides, players, technicians.

"And?"

Arthur shrugged. "It's mostly about sex in one form or another, and I'm not into that."

She gave him one of those full, blooming smiles. "You're not into sex?"

HIs ears were actually growing warm. Arthur cleared his throat. "I'm not into producing porn."

"Oh, good." Her expression was pure mischief. "Me either."

He gave in and laughed. "Which one, sex or porn?"

Her lips parted, shaping an answer, and the thrill that ran over him was delight or terror or both, because this was just what he was _not_ supposed to be doing, and yet -

"Aren't they the same thing?" Eames asked casually from across the room, stripping off his coat and strolling over. The breathless mood shattered.

"Only in your mind," Arthur commented sourly. Ariadne's mirth was muted, but her eyes still sparkled.

"Tsk, tsk," Eames said, draping his coat over a chair and regarding them both with tolerant amusement. "Such animosity. Clearly you haven't been getting enough of one or the other, darling."

"Some of us have better things to do." Arthur reached for the case, feeling his ears burning afresh. _What the **hell,** are you fifteen again?_

"There's _nothing_ better than sex. If there is, you're doing it wrong." Eames reversed his chair and sat, crossing his arms over the back.

Arthur opened the machine with quick, precise movements. "I doubt you're qualified to give lessons."

Ariadne cleared her throat ostentatiously, interrupting whatever retort Eames was mustering. "Excuse me, but the testosterone is getting overwhelming. Are we going to Dream, or should I let you two get out the measuring tapes?"

Eames sighed theatrically, but subsided, and they got down to business.

Arthur had almost succeeded in forgetting about the whole thing afterwards, but as they were leaving, Ariadne lingered outside the door, letting Eames draw ahead. Arthur put the key in the lock and then froze as Ariadne drifted into his personal space, standing on tiptoes to speak into his ear.

"Just so you know…I'm definitely into sex," she murmured, low and amused.

Before he could muster a reply, she was gone, walking away down the boulevard. But not, some part of him noticed, so quickly that he couldn't catch up.

He didn't. He locked the door mechanically, pocketed the key, and went home the long way, knowing that there would be no sleep for him at all.


	7. Worth a Shot

"Time for a break." Ariadne stood in the middle of the loft, hands on her hips. "I'm starving."

Arthur barely glanced up. "It's Eames' turn to fetch."

The forger stretched on his chaise longue, folding his arms behind his head. "No it's not."

"Forget takeout. We're going _out_ for dinner." Ariadne trotted over to the coatrack and pulled off Eames' jacket and Arthur's overcoat, tossing each on their respective laps. "Yusuf, you coming?"

"Who died and made you Blake?" Eames asked dryly, but Ariadne ignored him, looking past them to the bench where the chemist was working. Yusuf shrugged and set down his pipette.

"We need a _break_ ," Ariadne insisted, giving them all a stern look. "We've been working nonstop since Yusuf got here, and tomorrow the job starts. Besides, I'm buying, because that means I get to pick the restaurant."

"Oh, well then, I'm in," Eames said, rising and shrugging into his jacket.

"I also," Yusuf agreed. He came over to join them, grabbing his own coat on the way. "Are you coming, oh fearless leader?"

Clearly they were going with or without him. Arthur stood, more amused than annoyed. "This goes against protocol, you know."

Eames rolled his eyes. "Protocol, my ass. The only time we don't want to be seen together in public is right after a job." He zipped up his jacket, adding to Ariadne, "It's just an old bad habit. He's too used to having a price on Cobb's head."

"All right, all right." Arthur pulled on his coat. "Dinner it is, if it'll make you shut up."

Eames gave him a cheeky grin. "Never," he said, and held the door for Ariadne, who was snickering.

She chose a quiet bistro a short Métro ride away, known more for its food than its atmosphere. Dinner was unexpectedly pleasant; Yusuf was an excellent raconteur. Eames could charm when he wanted to, and by unvoiced agreement, he and Arthur kept the sniping light, the three of them somehow ending up in a competition over dessert to make Ariadne laugh.

And laugh she did, cheeks red as poppies, as Yusuf countered Eames' hilarious tale of multiple mistaken identities in Syracuse with the story of the singing gorilla that had broken into his calculus final in college. Arthur, feeling expansive, topped them both with a droll recitation of a job gone wrong and Cobb ending up bare-assed naked in a packed Dreamed baseball stadium. He had the pleasure of watching Eames in a classic spit-take, while Ariadne shrieked into her napkin, tears running down her face.

"Home plate?" she finally managed, waving one hand weakly.

"Nope. Center field," Arthur replied, and she lost it again, laughter gasping through the cloth while Yusuf leaned back in his chair and roared. Arthur smirked at them, well satisfied.

It was a little strange to realize that he was enjoying himself. He was by nature fairly solitary, and never would have considered an evening spent dining out with a man he didn't know well, one he didn't actually like, and the woman who stirred his hormones to be easy, let alone _fun._ But it was, even if he didn't know why. There was still the low hum of tension when he looked at Ariadne, or felt her looking at him, an ache he recognized; but like the ongoing gibing between him and Eames, it was muted for this little while, overlain with a camaraderie he hadn't felt since -

\- Since Mal had died, actually.

Yusuf left after dessert, claiming jet lag again; Arthur wasn't quite sure he believed the man, but personal matters weren't any of his business. The three of them remaining lingered over coffee to talk, enjoying the evening a bit too much to let it end just yet.

But eventually even that was finished, though they'd drawn the meal out in proper French fashion. "L'addition, si'l vous plait," Ariadne requested when the waiter stopped by, and when he dropped off the bill Eames rose, pulling on his jacket.

"Ta for a marvelous supper," he said, bending to kiss her cheek. "See you in Belgium."

The way she leaned into the kiss made something in Arthur's chest twist, but her glance up at Eames was nothing more than affectionate. "Sleep well."

Eames tossed an insolent salute in Arthur's direction and left. Ariadne watched him go, her expression fond, and Arthur felt suddenly petty.

"He'll be gone as soon as the job's finished, you know." He sipped at the last bitter dregs in his cup.

Ariadne turned her gaze to him. "I know," she said patiently. "He said he would be heading for Morocco this time." She shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me where, specifically, but I think I'm probably better off not knowing."

The casual words made Arthur feel like an idiot. He set down the cup, sighing. "I'll walk you home."

The fresh air outside the restaurant seemed to clear his head a little, and if Ariadne had noticed anything she gave no sign, pattering along next to him with her hands in her coat pockets and a faint tuneless hum drifting up to his ears. Her cheeks were still red, from alcohol or cold he didn't know, but gradually Arthur relaxed.

They took the Métro again, further this time. The car was almost deserted, so they had their choice of seats as the train rattled and roared its way through the tunnels. The lights sliding past gave it all an insubstantial feel, and Arthur fished his totem out of his pocket, rolling it around his palm before casting it across the hard seat next to him. It performed as expected, and he scooped it back up.

"Do you think you're in a Dream?" Ariadne asked, sounding bemused, and he glanced up at her.

"Subways…they always feel a little strange to me." He returned the die to his pocket. "One of the few dreams I can remember involves riding a train somewhere, though I think it's actually supposed to be New York City."

"I can see that," Ariadne said judiciously. "I haven't really had to use mine much yet."

Arthur gave her a somber look. "You will."

The night was still but cold when they emerged from the Métro, and Ariadne started to shiver almost at once despite her heavy jacket. Taking guilty pity on her, Arthur extended one arm and wrapped the edge of his greatcoat around her, snugging her close and leaving his arm across her shoulders. She hummed happily, stumbling a little, and he shortened his stride to match hers.

It was dangerous. He knew that. Camaraderie was well enough - it made for a more cohesive team - but this was skirting way too close to his own desire.

 _No involvement,_ he reminded himself for the thousandth time. _You know what happens when you get involved._ Tears, and recriminations, and chaos. And then the ringing, empty silence.

"That was a great story," Ariadne said, and he felt her arm slide around his waist. "If I ever see Cobb again I may not be able to look at him with a straight face."

It made sense for her to hold on to him, Arthur told himself; it would help her keep her balance. "You want to know the funniest thing about it?"

She glanced up at him, face alight with curiosity. "Sure."

"It wasn't Cobb, it was me. But I couldn't say that in front of Eames."

He expected another burst of laughter, but though her lips curved in a delighted smile, she didn't so much as giggle. "You know," she said after a moment, "somehow I can't picture you doing anything else but just carrying on."

That made _him_ smile, and he looked away down the street ahead of them. "Well. Let's just say that a poker face can be an asset in that kind of situation."

 _There_ was her giggle, and they walked on through history and modernity to the pre-war building that housed Ariadne's flat. She hadn't used her payoff from the Fischer job to move anywhere nicer, Arthur noted, and had to wonder why, though he approved of frugality. When they reached its stoop he withdrew his arm, shrugging his coat back into its proper folds across his shoulders.

Ariadne hesitated, then climbed the two shallow steps to turn and face him, almost eye to eye. "Do you want to come in?"

Her meaning was clear, as was her gaze, and Arthur felt a huge, almost unmanageable longing rising up despite all the reasons he had to say no. He opened his mouth to turn her down, and midway to his tongue the words changed. "Not…not tonight. Tomorrow's going to be busy."

She nodded, almost solemnly. "You're right, it's pretty late." Dropping her gaze, she pulled her keys from her purse. "Thanks for the company."

"Thank you for dinner," Arthur said mechanically, and watched as she smiled and turned away to unlock the door.

 _Why didn't you just tell her no?_ he berated himself on the trip home. _Just inform her that it can't happen._

But he couldn't. Part of it was pure self-interest; they had a job to do, one that was intended to save his neck, and if he upset Ariadne too much the team's cohesion would be disrupted; she might even leave.

Part of it was that he didn't want to hurt her. _It's just sex,_ he told himself desperately. _Nothing more. There's no reason to think that she wants anything more than a quick fling -_

His thoughts went around and around, and he still hadn't found his way out of the circle by the time he reached his practice space. Torn between anger and frustration, he threw himself into music and tried to forget.

* * *

Getting into Ms. Fitzhugh's suite was a relatively simple task. Arthur's meticulous research had uncovered, among myriad other facts, that her hotel routine was almost as rigid as his own. _Habit...the asset of the extractor._ She would arrive, change clothes and go down to the gym, work out for an hour, and then order a light meal before bathing. Then she would retire. She was not a sound sleeper, to judge from the frequency of her complaints to various hotel managements about noise, but that was a non-issue; once they had access, Yusuf would make sure that she slept quite well indeed.

It had taken some persuasion to get Yusuf to agree to field work for this job; Arthur had made an executive decision and sent Eames to do the talking for him. Whether it was the forger's charm, the friendship between the two, or - most likely - the promise of a hefty payout, Yusuf had come, bringing his kit and his wicked jokes. "But monitoring only," he'd warned Arthur when he'd arrived. "I don't Dream more than twice a year, and I've reached my limit."

"Just keep an eye on us, and we'll be fine," Arthur had replied, and Yusuf had grinned at him and gone off to mix his drugs.

Now they were trailing into the hotel one by one, checking into the rooms Ariadne had booked through four separate transactions. They were hardly more than staging grounds, a place to change clothes; they would spend much of the night in Fitzhugh's room, and leave as soon as possible afterwards.

It was somewhat unsettling to see straightforward Ariadne transformed into a gum-chewing extrovert who wore the skimpiest of the most cutting-edge fashions, but Arthur had to admit to a certain fascination as he watched her check in. She was definitely memorable - but no one watching her would think she had anything heavier on her mind than the next party. He was just grateful that Eames was already in his own room, and thus not ogling Ariadne's…assets.

Despite the simplicity of the setup, Arthur couldn't quite settle. He set up the machine in readiness for later, but that was a familiar task quickly finished, and he decided it would be wise to check up on the others.

No one answered Yusuf's door, but when he listened Arthur could hear a voice faintly through the door and the hiss of water, and realized with some amusement that the chemist was singing in the bath. Eames, on the other hand, opened his door almost as soon as Arthur knocked.

"What's on? Change of plans?" Eames asked, stepping back to let Arthur in. He was wearing most of the hotel's food-service uniform, and in the process of fastening his shirt cuffs.

"No. Nothing's changed," Arthur said, closing the door behind him. Eames had already been into the minibar, he realized with distaste; a gin and tonic, half-drunk, sat on the dresser next to the television.

"Then why are you here?" Eames asked with exaggerated patience.

He didn't really have a good answer, so Arthur ignored the question. "Let's go over the outline one more time."

Eames secured his button and grimaced. "We've been over it a dozen times already. I know it like the back of my hand."

"So? I need to know that you're prepared to handle whatever might come up." Arthur frowned, irritated. "Once the three of us are under, we'll be out of the loop. You won't have back-up if the situation changes."

"And if it does, I'll do what _I_ think best," Eames snapped. "Bloody hell, Arthur, you can't micromanage a Dream you're not even in!"

"Yes, but - "

Eames cut him off. "You're just going to have to trust me, as _difficult_ as that seems to be for you."

Arthur's fists tightened, because the accusation under the words had more truth than he wanted to admit. "I do trust you."

Eames' look was patently disbelieving. "Like hell you do. You don't trust anybody but Cobb, and Cobb's gone."

Arthur took a deep breath, refusing to flinch. "If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be here," he said as patiently as he could.

"Bollocks. I'm here because I'm _good_." His expression eased slightly. "Look, Arthur, I know you mean well, but at some point you're just going to have to unclench your sphincter and _let us do our jobs._ " He folded his arms. "Now get out of here and go bother someone else until it's time. I have things to do."

He wanted to argue, but the jab about Dom had been all too accurate. Arthur gave Eames the coldest look he could manage, and left.

* * *

The water was very soothing. Ariadne stroked back and forth through the indoor pool, letting the mindless movement ease the tension she felt at the upcoming… _caper_ seemed too lighthearted a word, she mused. _Extraction,_ then, though that still sounded like a dental procedure to her.

She had to give Ms. Fitzhugh points for the hotel she'd chosen. As Arthur had said, it was quite high-end, and the rooms were a treat; Ariadne rather regretted that she wasn't going to spend very long in hers.

 _With the money you'll make doing this, you'll be able to afford to stay here on your own dime,_ she reminded herself, but the truth was that she was too frugal to indulge. She still had what felt like a stunning amount left from her first two jobs, but she had been pinching pennies ever since she'd first understood the meaning of the word "tuition" and habit was hard to break.

Finally she was relaxed enough to quit. Ariadne climbed out of the pool and wrapped herself in the luxurious hotel robe, giving the Jacuzzi a regretful glance as she passed it. _It'll put you right to sleep._

The elevator was just down the hall from the pool. Its doors opened as Ariadne reached it, and a small woman, older and blonde, emerged. Ariadne almost flinched in surprise, because the deceptively soft-looking face was straight from the dossier Arthur had handed out, though the workout clothes were a far cry from the severe, expensive suit she'd worn in the photo.

Ariadne managed to not react, passing the older woman with the standard bare flicker of a polite nod, which wasn't even returned. As she turned in the elevator to press the correct button, she saw Ms. Fitzhugh disappear into the gym.

Despite the thick robe, the air conditioning was chilling her. Ariadne hurried out of the elevator when it reached her floor, and was startled again to see Arthur outside her door, glancing impatiently at his watch.

"What are you doing?" he asked brusquely as she neared. "We don't have time - you should be ready by now."

Facing down an Arthur dressed to the nines while damp and bedraggled made Ariadne self-conscious. Her wet hair and robe made her feel like a child, not the confident adult she wanted him to see. "We're not due to start for two hours," she snapped back. "There's plenty of time."

Dipping her hand into the robe's pocket, she brought out her keycard and jammed it into the lock, opening her door with a jerk. Arthur followed her into the room, practically treading on her heels, and the need for discretion was the only reason she didn't shove him right back out.

"Plans can change," he said, voice low and angry. "Just because she has a routine doesn't mean she won't vary from it tonight."

"Relax. I just saw her go into the gym." Ariadne grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around her head; she still meant to take a shower to wash off the chlorine, but the dripping tendrils of her hair were driving her crazy. "Your precious schedule is still good."

"For now," he retorted. "This is a professional operation, Ariadne. If you can't meet the standards…"

That stung. Ariadne glared at him. "This is _theft,_ " she said scathingly. "You may have imposed a…a _dress code_ , but we're nothing more than sneak thieves. And if you think that everything is going to stick to your _plan_ down there, you're more naïve than I am!"

Arthur's face tightened, his irritation shifting into an anger so cold that it almost made her quail. But then he blinked, looking down at her, and the fury was replaced by a weary desolation. Turning away, he dropped into her desk chair and said a word that would have made her brothers blush.

Her own anger faded. Letting out a breath, Ariadne rubbed her cold nose with the back of one hand and made her voice gentle. "What's the matter, Arthur?"

He stared down at his hands, linked loosely and hanging between his knees. "I'm not Cobb," he said bitterly.

That made her blink in turn. "Why would you want to be?"

"Because he knew how to run a team. I'm just…winging it."

The corner of her mouth curled up. "And if there's one thing you hate, it's not having a structure. Arthur, you're doing fine."

He laughed without humor. "Bullshit. First Eames, now you…the only reason Yusuf hasn't argued with me is because I haven't talked to him yet."

It was unsettling to see the unshakeable Arthur so upset, but his sudden vulnerability made a warmth gather beneath her breastbone. Stepping forward, Ariadne touched his shoulder. "And did you all obey Cobb without question?"

She could only see part of his face from that angle, but it was enough to see the muscles slowly shift, and she knew he was smiling. On impulse she moved her hand to the back of his neck. "You're doing fine," she repeated.

Arthur sighed, and to her astonishment leaned sideways until his forehead was pressed against her hip, just below the thick belt of her robe. Ariadne let her thumb creep up to caress his nape, where the soft dark hair began.

It was an oddly quiet moment, devoid of the sweet tension that usually sang through her when she stood close to him. She felt almost as though he were a wild creature, come unexpectedly close in a breathless gift.

And then she sneezed.

His laugh puffed against the terrycloth wrapped around her. "You'd better get in the shower," he said, straightening; her hand fell away and they were back to normality, team members on a mission. Ariadne realized she was shivering with cold, but she paused to check the water carafe on the little bar; it was full.

"Here," she said, and tossed a paper-wrapped teabag at him. "Make yourself a cup and _try_ to relax, okay?"

He picked the teabag out of the air, one brow climbing, but she spared him only an impatient glance as she scooped up her outfit and shut herself in the bathroom. Sniping aside, she prided herself on punctuality, and she wasn't going to be late for this gig either.

Ten minutes later she was dressed in the same ultra-trendy, expensive outfit in which she'd arrived, and her hair was rinsed, blown to a malleable dampness, and styled. Ariadne hastily applied the makeup she needed to look the part, and opened the bathroom door.

Arthur had taken her suggestion; she could smell the steam from the tea. He was seated at the little table at the far end of her room, absorbed in the sketchbook she'd left lying open there. She felt a small pulse of annoyance at him going through it, but it had been out in the open. Plus… _Pot calling kettle,_ she reminded herself. She was no better at boundaries than he was.

"If you spill tea on it, I'll kill you," she said lightly, and Arthur glanced back over his shoulder, though she knew he had to have heard her emerging.

"God forbid," he said, equally lightly, and stood. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be." Ariadne smoothed her shirt nervously and stepped into the shoes waiting by the door. "Let's go."

Fitzhugh looked small and harmless, Ariadne thought as they gathered around the suite's enormous bed. She was huddled under the sheets, sleeping on her stomach and looking older than her forty-plus years, and for a weird moment Ariadne felt like a vampire, settling in to steal the woman's essence while she slept.

Then she shook the thought off. She'd done some research on Cobol, and no one who made it to the executive level in that company had clean hands; Cobol took advantage of the weak laws of the Third World to do pretty much as it pleased without regard to human life, or really any kind of life at all. _If anyone in this room is a vampire, it's her._

"You'll have the usual time," Yusuf said quietly as they set up chairs around the motionless figure on the bed. "An hour in real time will give you plenty on the first level."

"And way too long on the second," Eames grumbled, settling into his chair and accepting the line Yusuf handed him.

"It's not your concern, Eames," Arthur said, but as far as Ariadne could tell the forger didn't take offense.

She leaned back in her own chair, making sure she was as comfortable as possible; if all went well they wouldn't be under long enough for her body to cramp up, but it made sense to be prepared. Yusuf took her extended wrist in firm fingers, and gave her a smile as he slipped the needles in. "I'll have the musical cue set up," he said, mostly to Arthur. "But at the slightest hint of trouble I'm dumping all of you at once."

Arthur nodded. "Keep an eye on Ms. Fitzhugh," he warned. "I don't want any bad reactions."

"Teach your grandmother to milk ducks," Yusuf retorted cheerily. "Ready?"

He pressed the button -


	8. A Maze of Twisty Passages, All Alike

She was getting used to the sense of satisfaction, but the _thrill_ of seeing the world she'd imagined in its full glory had not yet begun to pall; and Ariadne suspected it never would.

The dusty little room where she found herself was open to the sky, its roof having been removed by a bomb at some point in its nonexistent past. The sky was a hard blue above, and the view out the glassless windows was a ruined street empty of movement. Gunfire sounded in the distance - the spaced pops and snaps of entrenched positions sniping at one another.

Ariadne set down the teacup she was holding - there was an entire set in the center of the room, with a tiny gas stove to hold the kettle - and glanced at the man standing next to her. Arthur, who was also holding a cup, was dressed in the same practical fatigues she wore, dull and slightly baggy, and he had a pistol at his waist and a machine gun over one shoulder. He looked dubiously at the bone china in his hand. "Symbolism much?"

Ariadne gave him a dirty look. "Blame the Englishman. Where is he, anyway?"

"Nearby, I'm sure." Arthur bent to put his cup neatly on the matching lacquered tray before moving to the doorway to peer out. "It looks clear," he said. "Let's go."

They filed cautiously into the street. Ariadne let her hand brush against the handgun on her own belt; despite her success at shooting Mal's shade, she had no expertise with guns and it was only a backup. For the moment, she was fine with that.

There was no sign of movement as they picked their way down the street, detouring around chunks of concrete, but as they passed the third building a low voice called. "Hsst! Over here."

Eames was waiting in the shadow of a battered awning, and Ariadne had to suppress a smile as he came out to meet them. Unlike their restraint, he was outfitted more like Rambo might have been if he'd possessed modern weapons and slightly better dress sense, and his grin was wide and cheerful. "Shall we get this party started?"

Arthur gave a curt nod. "The clock's ticking."

The two men moved to put Ariadne between them as they continued on. She didn't object; gallantry or chauvinism, both of them were better armed and experienced than she. "Follow the gunfire?" Eames asked softly, and Arthur nodded again.

It didn't take very long to find Fitzhugh, since Dreamers were inevitably "deposited" in the same general area. She was scrambling along a cross street, dressed in black pants and a flak vest, and when she saw them she shouted furiously and heaved a chunk of concrete in their direction.

"Hey!" Eames squawked. "Friends, friends!"

"Why should I believe that?" Fitzhugh shouted back, but Ariadne heard a waver in the angry voice.

"Because we are," she called, and stepped past the men, hands held shoulder-high. Behind her, Arthur hissed disapprovingly, but he made no move to stop her. "We're looking for allies."

Fitzhugh stared at her suspiciously. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Well, you don't, now do you?" Eames said jauntily. "But I could point out that we've more guns. And we haven't shot you yet."

The woman hesitated a long moment, still looking ferocious, but then she relaxed, flashing a rather charming smile. "True enough." As she came closer, Ariadne saw the length of rusted rebar stuck through her belt; Fitzhugh had clearly not waited to arm herself.

"Actually, we're looking for you," Arthur added. "You _are_ Maureen, aren't you?"

The manufactured coincidence would be absurd in reality, but here the dream-state worked for them; Fitzhugh blinked, and accepted it without hesitation. "Yes, that's me."

Ariadne didn't think Arthur was feigning his relief. "Good. We found you in time."

Eames, who had been watching the proceedings with a grin, suddenly looked past the group to where the street bent around a taller building. His expression went grim. "Here they come. We need to move."

Ariadne ducked as gunfire erupted around them, and dove for the nearest shelter, which happened to be behind a burnt-out car. The others piled in with her, with both Arthur and Eames leaning around the hulk to return fire in quick bursts. Without ceremony, Fitzhugh snatched one of Eames' spare weapons from his belt and joined them; after a few minutes the guns fell silent, and their small group edged out and crept further down the street.

It all felt surreal, and it wasn't the sedative, Ariadne decided; inch forward, take cover, return fire, and move forward again, it all started to blur. It was _exhausting,_ and Ariadne felt that the second Dream would actually be a relief. Her ears rang with the noise, her system was full of adrenaline, and her gratitude that the projections had nothing heavier than guns was wearing thin under the sweat and the running.

Fitzhugh, on the other hand, seemed to be having a grim kind of fun. Thanks to the dream-state, she didn't question the fact that their small group never ran out of ammunition; Ariadne wondered sourly if Fitzhugh herself was ever going to run out of _projections._

But finally they reached sanctuary, or close enough - the building Ariadne had carefully designed to _look_ ruined, but to _be_ sound. They tumbled into the warehouse, Arthur bolting the door behind them; Ariadne heard a bullet ricochet off the wall outside, and blessed the fact that whatever else projections might be, they were generally poor shots.

"That won't hold for long," Fitzhugh said warningly. Eames ignored her, instead staring at the vehicle parked in the middle of the warehouse floor.

"I'm in love," he breathed. The tank was not new enough to be shiny, but it looked heavy and capable and extremely well-armed, and it was big enough to carry four - if most of the four were holding still.

"Now that we've got a little breathing space," Fitzhugh began, glancing from Ariadne to Arthur and folding her arms, "why were you looking for me?"

"To protect you," Arthur replied immediately. "There are some very bad people looking for you, Maureen. We were hired to ensure your safety."

She frowned. "What do they want with me?" Her expression was verging on belligerent again, and Ariadne bit her lip in worry, shoving her hands in her pockets. Arthur, however, seemed unfazed.

"Your secrets," he answered. "You have information that no one else does, and they want to make sure that no one can get their hands on it."

Fitzhugh frowned, more puzzled now than angry. "I'm…I don't know what they'd be looking for."

The door they'd come in by suddenly dented under a heavy blow. "Worry about it later!" Arthur grabbed Fitzhugh's elbow. "Right now we have to get out of here."

"I don't - " Fitzhugh began, but Ariadne stepped behind the woman, and with a move that surprised her with its smoothness, jammed the spray hypodermic from her pocket into Fitzhugh's neck and depressed the plunger.

Fitzhugh flinched, inhaled, and collapsed. Arthur caught her neatly, lifting her into his arms, where she hung in the limpness of unconsciousness. "Nice job."

Ariadne blinked down at the device, which was not available in the real world. "Gotta love Classic Trek."

"All aboard," Eames shouted, and Ariadne saw he'd opened the tank's side hatch. "Asses in gear, people."

She and Arthur hurried to the vehicle, squeezing inside so that Eames could lock the door before squeezing up to the front and the controls. "By the way, what's with the name?" he called back.

Ariadne grinned briefly; she'd wondered if he'd caught the _Pearly II_ stenciled on the outside. "Long story," she replied. "I'll explain later."

The interior was cramped and musty, but there was enough space to stand, barely; Ariadne had altered it considerably from the original specs, grateful that she didn't have to deal with an actual military budget. She hurried to get out the hammocks stored in one of the tank's tiny lockers; they had been the best compromise between safety and room. As she strung the first one up, the tank's engine roared to life.

Arthur laid Fitzhugh into the cradle of webbing and straightened just as the tank lurched forward. He wobbled, caught off guard, and Ariadne stepped forward hastily, grabbing both his arms. "You okay?"

He looked down at her with an expression that mingled startlement and and intensity, and Ariadne felt herself flush all over. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, and it was no good telling herself that it was all illusory, or that he was unable to make up his damned mind…

His wrists turned to mirror her grip on his forearms. "Yeah," he said, a little hoarsely. "Thank you."

His hands were so large that they wrapped all the way around. Ariadne forced her fingerss to open. "Hammocks," she managed. "I need to…"

Arthur let her go hastily. "I'll set up the machine."

The crash as Eames drove the tank out through the building's _closed_ garage door seemed only background noise, as did his whoop of enjoyment. Ariadne hung the other two hammocks with clumsy haste, cursing herself for giving into _hormones,_ for pity's sake, and stripped off her gun belt before bundling herself into the nearer one. Plugging herself in and lying back was practically a relief.

"All set?" Arthur asked from Fitzhugh's other side, finger poised over the button.

Ariadne stared at the metal ceiling overhead, and closed her eyes. "Go."

* * *

The ground was a little treacherous underfoot, littered with gravel and scree, but the roof of the tunnel was at least a couple of handspans above his head, and as they crunched along Arthur blessed Ariadne for remembering his height.

"Where are we?" Fitzhugh asked, her voice echoing through the rocky corridor. She was wearing coveralls and boots, and a helmet with a lamp built in; Arthur had the same, as did Ariadne just behind him. He glanced back at her assessingly; she looked like a child playing dress-up with dust smeared across her cheek.

"Let's take a look," Ariadne said, halting and unfolding the map she carried. The two women bent over the battered paper, and Arthur took the time to examine their surroundings. In the beam of his headlamp, the tunnel showed the same aspect behind and before - rough-hewn stone scarred by picks and shovels, curving off into the dark. It smelled cold and faintly metallic, and there was nothing to tell him exactly where they were even though he'd memorized Ariadne's layout.

 _So far so good._ Automatically he checked for both his totem and his handgun; both were where he'd expected them to be, one in his pocket and the other holstered on his belt. He hoped they could avoid an actual shootout this time, though; the potential for a ricochet was too high.

"We're here." Ariadne tapped a spot on the map. "And the treasure should be…"

"Here." Fitzhugh pointed without hesitation.

 _Gotcha,_ Arthur thought. Fitzhugh's mind had seen the map and chosen the location. All they had to do was get there.

"It doesn't look too far," the woman added, but Ariadne shook her head.

"This map only shows two dimensions. We're going to have to do some climbing, I'm afraid."

"We should get moving, ladies," Arthur interrupted. There was something tickling at the edge of his hearing, and he didn't think it was water dripping.

They moved off as quickly and quietly as the uneven ground would allow. The tunnel sloped down and then up, bending through the rock and occasionally crossing other tunnels, but Ariadne always knew just where to go. Arthur stayed in the rear, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit.

And they were there. For the moment their hunters were far away, but he knew that Fitzhugh's projections were on their trail. He wasn't sure whether to hope that they were unarmed; hand-to-hand would be safer for Fitzhugh and Ariadne, but more dangerous for him, as well as considerably messier.

The tunnel suddenly opened into a wider chamber, one with a ceiling that was too high for their lamps to illuminate. Various antique mining equipment littered the chamber, dusty but unbroken. Fitzhugh immediately scavenged herself a pick; Arthur grabbed a shovel, and looking up, spotted some graffiti carved into the rock. _Beware the Grue._

He rolled his eyes.

The ground got rougher beyond the chamber. Ariadne had promised that there would be no slope that required climbing gear, but as they struggled up a steep rockface, Arthur found himself wishing for some. They were almost at the top when the faint echoes behind them suddenly boomed.

"They reached the big room," Arthur said, pulling himself up onto the more level ground and reaching back to pull Fitzhugh up beside him. "Ariadne, what's after this?"

"Uh, a pretty level tunnel," she said breathlessly, scrambling over the edge before he could offer her a hand. "It goes on about two hundred yards."

"They'll be here - they _are_ here." Faint light was washing over the base of the slope, and he knew the projections would be there momentarily. _This is the most defensible spot_. "You two - go on ahead. I'll take care of this."

Ariadne shot him a worried look, but didn't argue, thankfully. "Come on," she said to Fitzhugh. "Let's give him some room."

The light grew stronger, resolving into spots that bobbed and jerked. Arthur widened his stance and gripped the shovel hard, and waited.

They came swarming up the slope, five, six of them, and though they looked like men - and one woman - Arthur was reminded irresistibly of cockroaches. He waited until the first one was in range, and swung at the head; the sound the blow produced was repulsive, but the projection tumbled away, vanishing halfway down the slope.

Arthur hit the next one too, and the next; grim hard work that on some level made him feel sick even though he knew his attackers really had no more mind than a leukocyte. The third one took the fourth down with it, but though number four landed hard, it didn't blink out. Five was faster, and managed to evade Arthur's swing, gaining the top and its feet in one quick lunge. Arthur found himself grappling for possession of the shovel, jerking back and forth, each trying to unbalance the other.

Number six clambered over the edge just as number five managed to wrench Arthur around and force him back. Arthur felt his heels teetering over the slope. _Move, you idiot, if you survive the drop they'll be on you before you can stand -_

It was a move he would never have attempted if he'd had time to think. Bracing one leg, Arthur kicked with the other, shoving number six hard and using the momentum to drive number five forward. Six fell back down into the darkness; five stumbled, off balance, and Arthur wrenched the shovel away and swung it in a flat arc.

 _Wow,_ he thought, watching the result bounce down the tunnel before it vanished. _I've never seen one decapitated before._

Fortunately, subs did not bleed. The last projection was within a foot of the top when Arthur brought the handle of the shovel down hard on its head. It too fell and disappeared, and he sagged back against the wall, gasping quietly. His coveralls were soaked with sweat.

"Arthur?" came Ariadne's tremulous voice, and he pushed away from the stone and started towards her. _Let's hope we can avoid the rest of them._

"Are you all right?" Ariadne asked worriedly when he rejoined them. Fitzhugh merely frowned at him, as if blaming him for holding them up.

"I'm fine." It was essentially true; he had bruises and scrapes, and one of the subs had stepped on his foot, but none of it was serious.

"We should get going," Fitzhugh said nervously. Arthur reflected that while he didn't really like the woman, it was a blessing that she was so goal-oriented; unlike Fischer, for instance, she didn't have to be prodded along the route they needed her to take.

They continued. There would be more pursuers, Arthur knew, but they were entering the true maze now, and that could be expected to slow them up some. Nonetheless, he stayed behind the women and hoped that none of Fitzhugh's projections would solve the maze too quickly.

Ariadne led them without hesitation, down inclines and up winding paths, passing by some openings in the rock and choosing to divert down others. As Arthur gave Fitzhugh a boost up to a tunnel set halfway up the wall, he felt the ground shudder under his feet.

Ariadne squeaked above. "What was _that_?"

"Earthquake?" he lied, vaulting up to follow. Ariadne glanced back at him and he pointed up with one finger. _Something's happening in the upper level._

She seemed to understand; her face set, and she picked up the pace. Nothing loathe to hurry, Arthur followed, wondering what in hell Eames was up to. _At least he can't drop us - not without driving off a cliff._ And there weren't any in that Dream.

There were several more shocks, one hard enough to shake some gravel loose from the ceiling, and with each one Ariadne looked more drawn. Fitzhugh merely braced herself on whatever was handy and kept going, determined to get to the treasure she herself had placed in the heart of the mine.

Ariadne hung back a little until Arthur came up beside her. "This isn't good," she muttered. "These tunnels aren't made to withstand any big shocks."

He bit back a sharp retort; there was no reason they _should_ be, he reminded himself, given that this world was never meant to experience earthquakes. "Then let's hope that was the worst of them." He could hear movement behind them again, echoing oddly and then fading. "Keep going."

They half-ran when they could, the tunnels becoming almost a mirage in the bobbing light from their helmets. Arthur tried to remember where they were based on the model in his head; the tunnels were deliberately confusing, but he was certain they were getting very close.

Fitzhugh suddenly halted. "Wait," she hissed, throwing up a hand.

Arthur strained his ears and eyes, and saw what she had - the faintest glow on the curve of the tunnel ahead, light thrown by something further along. He glanced at Ariadne, but she shook her head. "That's not it," she whispered.

 _Dammit._ "Ambush," he mouthed back. "Alternate?"

She bit her lip, then gestured, and they tiptoed back the way they'd come.

Ariadne led them about fifty yards back, around two corners and across a small crevasse that had, fortunately, been easy to jump. The opening in the wall was low and narrow, and Arthur realized grimly that it was going to require crawling.

"I'll go first," he said in a low voice. "Just in case."

The mouth of the passage was just big enough for him to crawl on his hands and knees. It was exceedingly awkward with the shovel, but he wasn't going to leave it behind, and he clanked forward, scraping his knuckles on the rock floor and trying to avoid hitting his head. Fitzhugh was just behind him, not doing much better with her pick.

The passage wasn't very long. It emptied out into a tunnel that looked a lot like the one they'd just come from; Arthur stuck his head out and listened so long that Fitzhugh poked him impatiently, but there was no sign of life of any kind, and he finally slithered out.

Fitzhugh was next, taking his hand to stand, then bending again to tie her bootlace. He was about to reach down for Ariadne when the ground shook again, much harder than before.

Fitzhugh squawked, toppling onto her backside, and Arthur lurched against the wall, bruising his palms. But Ariadne screamed, and the sound was immediately lost in the crack and grind of stone, and the clatter of her helmet hitting the ground.

He dropped hard to his knees, ignoring the fresh bruises and the dust that had puffed from the passage. The horror that sluiced icily through him was a new sensation; the opening was _gone_.

Arthur tore at the loose rock that had filled the space, letting it bounce out into the tunnel without regard for noise. _If you die in a Dream you just wake up_ swam through his head, but he knew she wasn't dead, because the Dream was still stable. No, Ariadne was alive - and he remembered exactly what it felt like to be shot through the knee.

He uncovered her hand first, reaching through the stone as if swimming, and then her hair, whitened with dust. "Ariadne!"

She coughed, a wet sound that made his own chest hurt, and lifted her head from the floor, blinking. He wiped at the dust that coated her face as well, but his hand came back smeared with red.

"Arthur - " It was no more than a whisper. He pulled more rocks away, and then halted, rocking back in dismay.

The slab pinning her was far too big to move without equipment. On some level she looked absurd, a head sticking out of the landslide of rock, but the blood was coming from her mouth, not her scalp, and Arthur felt his heart contract.

The word that escaped him made her try to smile, but she failed. "Serves me r-right," she managed, and her eyes closed.

Everything in him begged to let her go, but Arthur grabbed her fingers and squeezed brutally. "No," he said, as hard as he could manage. "No, you have to stay."

When her eyes opened again, they were dilated and dazed, and he knew shock was taking her. He glanced over his shoulder; Fitzhugh was standing a couple of yards away with the uncomfortable expression of someone who didn't know what to say. He hoped she wasn't really listening. "You have to hang on, Ariadne, or the whole thing will come down."

The betrayed look that came over her made him feel sick. "I can't," she whispered, and coughed again.

He squeezed harder. "Just a few more minutes," he said lowly. "Just a little longer, and we'll have it."

"She's done for," Fitzhugh said behind him, her voice almost sympathetic. "I hate to say it, but we'll have to leave her."

Because paying attention to her would mean violence, Arthur ignored her. "Ariadne, please. _Please._ " _Or it will all be for nothing, and we won't get another chance -_

Her gaze slid past him, going unfocused, and for a moment he thought he'd lost her after all, but then she spoke again. "Almost there…go right, two lefts…"

He bent and pressed a kiss to the dusty crown of her head, then pushed to his feet, every part of him aching. "We'll hurry."

Her eyes slid closed once more, but the Dream didn't waver. Arthur picked up his shovel and ran with Fitzhugh, and every step hurt.

* * *

 _It's just a Dream_ , she told herself, over and over again. _Just a Dream, you'll be fine, just a little while longer._

It wasn't working. The agony made it hard to keep even that thread of thought; the pressure crushing her wanted to squeeze her into nothingness, and she wanted to _let_ it, anything to get away from the pain. _All in your head, it's all in your head -_

All in her head, which was in Eames' head, which was - where? Ariadne blinked dizzily, the feeble light from her discarded helmet darkening around the edges. She was glad Arthur had left it, even if there was nothing to see. It gave her something to hang on to, some way to sense time passing.

Every breath she drew was excruciating. She couldn't get enough air anyway, her lungs wouldn't expand far enough. Blood kept washing up into her mouth, sickeningly metallic, and Ariadne gritted her teeth and clenched the fingers of the one hand she could move and tried to wait, tried.

Why had he made her stay? It was too much to ask, too much to ask anybody to endure. Coughing was a fresh agony she tried to repress, without succeeding. _Arthur -_

_Just a little while longer. A few minutes. You can stand it._

She couldn't. She _knew_ she couldn't, nobody could. He'd left her here, trapped and crushed, left her to bleed out her life - whichever life it was - on the stone of her own creation -

Maybe she was in Limbo, and didn't know it. Maybe this was Hell.

_It **hurts** -_

The music came from everywhere and nowhere, a rich, eerie beauty that had no echo in this world.

Ariadne heard it, and if she could have smiled, she would have. _It's time._

She let go.

* * *

The loud _bang_ made her open her eyes. _Pearly II's_ interior was dim, stuffy, and hot, but waking was absolute _bliss._

"You're a bit early," Eames said from behind her, and Ariadne pulled off the headphones and sat up cautiously, feeling the ghost of pain fading from her illusory nerves. "How'd it go?"

"Tell you later," she said, cut off by another bang. "What's that?"

Eames glanced upward, even though there was nothing to see but the roof of the tank. "The natives are restless," he said sourly. "They're throwing rocks."

" _Rocks?"_ It sounded absurd, but the third volley made the vehicle quiver.

Arthur opened his eyes with a gasp and sat up quickly, his gaze flying to her. Ariadne turned away, pulling her leads free.

"Keep her under," Arthur instructed Eames, jerking a thumb at the unconscious Fitzhugh.

"Why?" Eames said, startled, but already moving to adjust the requisite pump.

"Because if she wakes up now I'll kill her." Arthur's voice was grim.

Ariadne stood up, swaying a little, and went for the periscope. "Did you get it?" Eames asked behind her, sounding slightly puzzled.

Arthur's reply was barely audible over the clang of yet another rock. "Yes."

_Well. That's something, anyway._

The 'scope was already up. Ariadne peered into it, turning it to look around, and saw why the mine had shaken. _Pearly II_ was at the bottom of what appeared to be a makeshift pit; the slope it had come down was rough enough to have generated some severe jolts, which showed her where the earthquakes had come from. The pit itself was barely big enough to hold the tank, which explained why Eames hadn't driven out of it; there wasn't room to turn around, and the vehicle was perpendicular to the slope.

She flinched as a huge chunk of concrete smashed down right in front of the periscope. "How are they _throwing_ this stuff? There shouldn't be enough technology in this city to build a catapult."

"Hah. As far as I can tell, sheer brute muscle power." Eames was frowning when she glanced back; Arthur, behind him, was bent over Fitzhugh's motionless form. "There's enough of them to pick up the pieces and just heave them."

"I didn't put in a pit, either," Ariadne pointed out, straightening. It would take a lot more effort than the subs were using to break into the vehicle, but the noise was unnerving.

"Ah, that." Eames rubbed the back of his neck guiltily. "Yes, well, never try to drive a tank through a building that lacks reinforced floors."

" _Ass_ hole," Arthur said. Ariadne snickered; she was almost sorry she'd missed it.

The music started again, everywhere and nowhere. Arthur glanced up; Eames sighed, and patted the tank's wall, as if sorry to leave it.

Ariadne closed her eyes and waited.

* * *

The hotel room was just as they'd left it, a web of lines connecting them to the small figure in the bed; Yusuf was sitting in a wingback chair, glasses on his nose and a book face-down on the table next to him. "Welcome back," he said as they all stirred. "Success, I take it?"

Ariadne didn't reply; Arthur, whose face was expressionless, shrugged. "We got it."

Across from him, Eames groaned, tried to sit up, and sank back. "Bloody hell," he said, slurring. He managed to pull the headphones off, but then dropped them clumsily.

Yusuf stood hastily, rounding the bed to take Eames' pulse and peel up an eyelid. Eames batted feebly at him. "Sedative backlash," Yusuf pronounced. "You'll be fine with some sleep."

"I can't hardly move," Eames complained, scarcely more than a mumble. Arthur sighed, removed his own leads, and came over to his side.

"Come on, Mr. Eames. Time to go to bed."

Ariadne helped Yusuf free the remaining leads and coil them up as Arthur tugged Eames upright and slung the shorter man's arm over his shoulder. Remembering her own encounter with the drug fatigue, Ariadne couldn't blame Eames for being unable to stand - _she_ hadn't even been able to sit up.

She and the chemist replaced the chairs in their original spots, and Ariadne took a quick glance around as Arthur half-carried Eames to the door. Everything seemed to be back in place, and Fitzhugh hadn't stirred.

"Let's go," Arthur said over Eames' shoulder. Yusuf joined him at the door, the machine case in hand, and Ariadne sighed, and followed them out.

They rode the elevator to their respective floors in silence. Arthur was busy with Eames, and Yusuf clearly sensed that something had gone wrong, to judge by his raised-browed look, but he said nothing. Ariadne watched the floor indicator blink from number to number, struggling to get a grip on reality.

It was a relief to close the door of her room behind her. She made an abrupt turn into the bathroom and turned on the light, and pulled her clenched fist from her pocket. Her totem looked innocuous in the bright light, if a bit incongruous; she knocked it over with one finger, and it fell exactly as expected.

The air went out of her in a long rush. Ariadne looked up at her image in the mirror. Her reflection was perfectly normal, not even pale beneath the makeup; there was nothing in her face to indicate that just minutes ago she had been crushed to death.

She reached out to touch the glass, half-expecting it to shatter even though her totem told her she was awake. It didn't; it was cold and smooth under her fingertips, unyielding. And when she lifted her hand, her smudgy prints remained.

 _You should sleep,_ she told herself. _Sleep will help you get over it._ And morning and check-out would arrive soon enough.

But she didn't want to. Because if she slept, she might find herself back in the mine, dying all over again.

She was halfway through her second cup of tea, huddling in the desk chair and watching the TV on mute, when someone knocked softly on her door. Ariadne hesitated, then went to peer through the peephole. _If it's Arthur -_

But it was Yusuf, and she unbolted the door and swung it open, surprised. "What's up?"

The chemist gave her a smile. "Can I come in?"

Ariadne shrugged and stood aside. He was carrying the machine with him, and he placed the case on her little desk and swung around to face her as she closed the door again. "Are you all right?"

"Sure," she said dryly. Yusuf's return glance was equally dry.

"I know something happened down there. No - " He held up a hand. "Arthur didn't tell me, and to be frank I don't really care to have the details. But you need to rest."

Ariadne nodded reluctantly; despite the tea, her head was swimming with fatigue. Yusuf smiled gently. "I can give you sleep without dreams. Just for tonight."

The offer held a lot of experience behind it, and insight Ariadne wasn't sure she was comfortable with, but the idea was tempting. "Really?"

Yusuf popped open the case. "There's more than one kind of sedative, my dear. I shouldn't recommend this for daily use, but once in a while is fine. And when you wake up, it will be easier to bear."

She was too tired to resist. Ariadne sat down on the bed, and slowly held out her arm.


	9. Emulating Silicates

He was right. When she woke, to early light coming in the window and Yusuf snoring quietly in the chair near her bed, Ariadne felt much calmer - still tired, but calmer. She lay still for a while, thinking.

It still _hurt,_ what Arthur had done. She could understand why he had; to Arthur, the mission was the most important thing, and besides that it was his neck on the line - all of theirs, really, but his most of all. But asking - demanding - that she endure had been _cruel_.

She didn't like to think of him as cruel. Brusque, standoffish, even cold in between those flashes of humor - but not cruel.

Not really cold, either, Ariadne admitted, when the goodbyes had been said and the planes boarded. She curled up in her seat, still not used to traveling first class, and stared out the window. He put up a good front, Arthur did, but there was more to him than he tried to show. He _did_ care about people - look at Cobb, after all; it was clear how much Arthur missed his old friend -

_Oh._

Her reflection in the window was faint, but it was smiling. Ariadne tapped the cold plastic, the hurt easing a trifle. _That's why._

They definitely needed to have a talk, she and the boss.

* * *

Arthur left the hotel the minute the check-out desk was open, leaving it to Yusuf to make sure that Eames was all right. He'd called Ariadne just before leaving, and she had very politely told him she was fine, thank you, she would see him back in Paris. Part of him wanted to see her face to face, but he didn't think she would open her door to him, and anyway he had a more pressing matter.

The information they'd plucked from Fitzhugh's head was a weight in his own, though he'd sketched the plans out as soon as possible lest he lose a detail. The drugs they used for Dreaming let them hang onto dreams longer than normal, but there was no sense in taking chances.

Usually, of course, there were at least two of them memorizing the relevant data, but that hadn't been possible this time...

The journey to Kenya was long and enervating, but if there was one thing Arthur knew how to deal with, it was jet lag. He took only enough time on landing to freshen up and change clothes before heading to Cobol's headquarters.

An hour later he stepped from its sterile coolness into the downpour of winter rain, pausing to pop open the umbrella he'd brought with him. It was done; the information was safely transferred, and the bargain was kept. He trusted Cobol about as much as he would trust an upset cobra, but the deal he'd made was common knowledge among the very small and exclusive world of extraction teams. The company would have to keep its word if it ever wanted to make use of an extractor again. The hard knot that had tightened under his breastbone the second the gun had nosed under his ear was now gone. _You don't have to watch your back any more,_ he promised silently.

It hadn't taken long, in the end, once they'd left Ariadne and made the last few turns. The treasure chamber had glittered subtly with mica wherever their headlamp beams had touched, and on a boulder in the center of the high-roofed room was a battered metal box, rusty and riveted. It had opened at Fitzhugh's touch, revealing the sheaf of equipment plans, and in her triumph she had scanned each one and passed it to Arthur, never sparing a thought for the woman dying back in the fallen passage.

He had never been so relieved to hear the signal.

Had it been worth it? That sort of sacrifice was something any of them might be asked to make during a job, but to be in _that_ amount of pain… And Ariadne was a tyro. It hadn't been fair.

_Life isn't fair._

Arthur returned to his little hotel room, made one phone call, packed up his suitcase, and boarded the first plane back towards Europe. He was asleep before the wheels left the ground, but awake again too soon.

It took him almost two days to get back into Paris, and in much worse condition than when he'd left, but that too could be remedied. Part of him wondered why he was even bothering; it was entirely possible to wire his team their money and close the lease on the workshop remotely. But he preferred to be tidy.

And he owed Ariadne something. Maybe it was the chance to blame him face to face; he wasn't sure. But the need was there, and the need to see her one more time and make sure she was all right.

It didn't surprise him to find her waiting in the workshop. In fact, Arthur realized, he'd half-expected it. Her messy corner was tidy now, all the plans and models swept away; she sat crosslegged on one of the chaises, huddled in a sweater and her ubiquitous scarf, reading a battered paperback. When he stepped into the room, she set the book aside, but didn't move.

"Ariadne," he acknowledged, and hung up his coat. The day was bright and sunny, but quite cold; the light pouring in the windows made her look almost ethereal.

She didn't reply. Arthur walked over to the briefing area and its huddle of seating, but he didn't take a chair. Her gaze followed him, and he realized that the anger he'd expected wasn't there. It baffled him.

"Go ahead," he said, and leaned back against one of the tables. "Say what you need to."

Ariadne leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. "You think it's going to be that easy?"

He shrugged. "Dancing around the subject won't get us anywhere."

She breathed in, then seemed to change her mind, hesitating before speaking again.

"You made me wait. You left me alone to die."

He swallowed hard. "I know."

Her eyes were wide and dark, and strangely distant. "I should hate you for it."

By that phrasing, he knew she didn't. "Why don't you?" He kept his voice cool.

"Because." She smiled, small and wistful. "I figured it out, Arthur. It wasn't just for _you._ "

He opened his mouth to deny it, but he was too late. "You did it for Cobb. So he would be safe."

_How did she know?_

When he said nothing, her smile widened, and she shook her head. "Arthur, it's not something to be ashamed of. He's your _friend._ "

He dropped his gaze, embarrassed despite her words. "Yes, well. He has those kids…"

Ariadne sighed. "Why the _hell_ are you so determined to pretend you don't have a heart?"

"I don't," he said quickly, meeting her eyes once more. "I have a gear, remember?"

Her grimace was eloquent. "This is ridiculous." With sudden energy, she slid off the chaise and reached for the silver case on the table. "We're going to Dream."

"Ariadne - " His protest was cut off by her glare.

"You _owe_ me, Arthur. Twice over."

He could walk away, he told himself. She couldn't stop him.

But she was right, and he did try to pay his debts.

He reached for the lines, and she smiled.

* * *

It wasn't what he expected. Not city nor prairie, not anything he'd ever seen; it was a vast sky, a huge golden sun that was sinking to the horizon, and a bizarre island, a chunk of grass-furred earth that floated what looked like miles above the ground. It had two small trees and a little pond on it, and roots hanging out into the air, and no visible support whatsoever. It was completely absurd, sailing serenely along through the atmosphere as if it were a cloud.

He liked it.

Ariadne wrapped her arms around her knees and looked out over the edge; Arthur stretched out on his back and stared up at the sky, which was darkening from blue to violet as the sun sank away. The stars appearing, he noticed idly, were thick and bright but did not fall into any familiar constellation.

"Why do you pretend so hard, Arthur?" Ariadne asked at last.

He thought about claiming that he didn't understand what she meant, but it was pointless. "It's easier."

"Really?" She wasn't looking at him; her hair curled down her back, tangled from the persistent breeze, and he bit back a desire to smooth it. "You just jeopardized quite a bit to rescue a friend. Is it really easier to act like you don't care?"

"If you act hard enough, sometimes it comes true." The words came too easily to his lips, but he didn't try to stop them. Maybe if he explained, she would finally give up. Maybe -

Ariadne turned her head, resting it on her folded arms to regard him. "Does it?"

Arthur looked back to the stars. "No." Not when it really mattered, apparently.

She was silent for a while, long enough for the sun to vanish entirely and the sky to achieve the blue that borders on black, a magnificence only seen far from cities and their lights. He could almost hear the stars singing.

"Who hurt you?" she asked at last.

He sighed, and gave up. "It's a long story."

It was too dark now to see her brow go up, but he knew it had all the same, and almost laughed. "It was years ago, okay? She…I thought she cared about me, but in the end she wanted something else. She loved the image, not the real me."

He paused for breath, amazed at how much the memory hurt - the sheen of light on Jeanette's skin, the way she'd fitted in his arms, the look on her face when he'd proposed.

The sound of her voice when she'd told him she was leaving him, for someone who had the impulsivity she craved and who wasn't breaking the law.

"Then it was her loss," Ariadne said quietly, and Arthur laughed again, more pain than humor.

"Maybe. But I loved her." And she had taken the only other person he had left with her, leaving him utterly alone _._ "I just wasn't good enough."

"That's bull," she said, firmly enough to make his temper flare. "That's just self-pity talking."

Arthur sat up, glaring at her. "Really? She walked away, just like everybody else. Even Dom - "

"Dom is right there," Ariadne returned, cutting him off. "Just because you aren't working together any more doesn't mean you can't be friends."

"How would you know?" Arthur snapped.

"Because I know _him._ He's a good man, Arthur." She was just a silhouette against the sky, but the warm touch on his hand was unexpectedly comforting. "And loyalty like yours - he has to treasure that."

Almost without his volition, his hand turned under hers to grasp her fingers. "It doesn't change anything," he said tiredly.

"No. If you want change you have to make it yourself."

"I don't like change, remember?" Her chuckle made him smile in the dark despite himself.

They watched the stars for a while, her cool skin warming against his. Arthur knew he should let her go, but he couldn't muster the will.

Finally Ariadne spoke again, her voice trembling just slightly. "I think I've made it pretty clear what I want, Arthur. But you haven't. I can deal with _no,_ but the ambiguity is getting to me."

 _You're not the only one._ He let her hand go and pushed to his feet, a weird feeling rising in him, as if he had stepped off the island and was plunging toward the ground. "You don't really want _me,_ Ariadne. You just want the image, the same way she did."

"Maybe." He caught the gleam of starlight in her eyes as she looked up at him. "But how can I know what you're really like if you don't let me see?"

He could feel the earth rushing up at him, blotting out the sky. "All right. I'll show you. Give me control of the Dream."

"What?" She sounded startled. "You - I can do that?"

"We've worked with each other enough," he said, impatient now that he'd made up his mind.

"Okay, but _how?_ " Ariadne stood, and he could just make out her propping her hands on her hips.

"Symbolism will do. You choose." He waited, and after a moment he saw something forming in the air just ahead of him. At first he thought it was a door, but when he squinted he realized it was a wardrobe.

Arthur couldn't help the snort. "Optimist."

Ariadne laughed, and he reached out and grasped the handle.

* * *

The house was an abrupt transition, full of dust and sunlight, and Ariadne found herself blinking even though the sudden onslaught of light didn't actually hurt. She looked around her; the place looked like a repurposed Victorian, cluttered and messy. They were standing in the front hallway; before them was a living room, and the stairs rose up on their left. As Ariadne watched, the front door just to their right flew open and two young boys ran in.

They weren't quite "nothing alike", Ariadne noted - they were both dark-haired and round-cheeked, and were even dressed alike in t-shirts and jeans. But where one boy dumped his bookbag just inside the door and ran into the living room to pounce on the Nintendo, the other hung up his bag on the hooks by the door and took out a sheaf of papers, heading past Arthur and Ariadne as if they weren't there. She glanced at the adult Arthur, who jerked a shrug at her, face closed.

 _All right, then._ Ariadne followed the memory through a dining room where the table was lost under a welter of paper to an equally cluttered kitchen. The little boy was trying to attract the attention of a tall woman who was speaking into a phone. "Mom. Mom?"

"Hold on a sec - What is it, Arthur?"

The boy held up the papers. "You have to sign the permission slips so we can go on the field trip, Mom."

The woman waved a hand at the counter. "Just leave them, baby, I'll get to them."

She patted him on the head, oblivious to the frustration on his face. "Sorry, Annie, just the twins - so he's gone _again_ \- "

"Mom, it's _tomorrow._ " When his mother ignored him, the boy flung the papers down on the counter between boxes of cereal and stalked out.

Ariadne trailed him up the stairs to a bedroom at the back of the house. It was fairly large - it had to be, because it had two of each piece of furniture. But where half the room was as messy as the rest of the house, half was ruthlessly tidy, the bed made and the chair pushed in. The young Arthur sighed heavily and took off his shoes before lying down on the neatest bed and pulling a book from the shelf nearby.

Ariadne glanced back behind her; the Arthur she knew stood there, arms folded. His eyes met hers, expressionless, and the scene shifted; the same room, but dark with night. There was enough light coming in from the hallway for Ariadne to make out the twin beds, but only one was occupied. Both boys were cuddled together in the other, sound asleep.

Then one jerked up, and screamed -

The Dream got hazy for a little while; when she looked back on it later, Ariadne figured Arthur had lost control of it. She saw a young man who looked enough like Arthur to be his brother, face angry, turning away over and over again; a blonde woman who spoke words she couldn't make out in a soft and pleading voice; a tall couple with welcoming smiles that she recognized with a shock as Dom and Mal.

Things settled down, coming into focus. Ariadne found herself in a narrow corridor lined with glass-windowed doors and transoms; it smelled closed-in, and faintly of cigarette smoke. She looked down, and realized she was dressed in another one of those conservative outfits - though the shoes were oddly heavy - and gloves?

The weight of the hat clued her in. _Nineteen-forties fashion - maybe Fifties._ Ariadne pulled off the hat, regarded it, and shook her head. _Okay, Forties. So where's Arthur?_

She replaced the hat, tilting it rakishly, and set off down the corridor, hoping she was headed in the right direction.

There didn't seem to be anyone else in the building. Ariadne passed door after blank door; the corridor didn't seem to get any shorter, and she was starting to wonder if she should turn around when she saw printing on one window. The _Thomas Arthur Chase_ told her she was in the right place, though the _Professional Thief_ beneath it made her snicker. She pushed the door open.

The room beyond was an office, with a huge battered wooden desk and cracked blinds on the windows. Arthur was there, dressed in his usual fashion but minus the coat. What shocked her was the woman in his arms, dressed in the same plum-colored suit Ariadne wore, sitting on the desk and tilting her head back to accept his mouth on the curve of her throat.

Ariadne froze, torn between outrage and embarrassment. Before she could close the door, Arthur looked up, and there was no surprise in his face.

So did the woman, and Ariadne felt another shock pass over her as she realized it was _her._ From her dark hair to her damnably short stature, Arthur had duplicated her, and was apparently on the point of making love to her in what looked like the setting for a noir novel.

On some level, Ariadne thought, she should be furious. Instead, she strode forward, took the simulacrum firmly by the arm, and drew her away from Arthur. The duplicate didn't resist at all; Ariadne guided her to the door and bundled her out, closing it behind her copy and locking it before turning back. Arthur was staring at her with the air of a man whose well-rehearsed play had just gone off the rails. _If you're trying to scare me off, you're going to have to try harder than that._

Ariadne pulled off her hat and marched back to the desk, hitching herself up onto it and tossing the hat behind her. She reached up and began unbuttoning Arthur's vest, feeling a mad excitement building in her. "You know, all you had to do was _ask._ "

His hands closed on her wrists, and she looked up, ready to argue the point, but the words died on her tongue. His eyes were dark and intense, and he slowly raised her arms, urging her until she put them around his neck.

The feel of him pressed against her was exhilarating, even through all the layers they were both wearing. His arm went around her waist, and without a word he bent his head. His mouth grazed the skin beneath her ear, and Ariadne shuddered, because she had never felt anything quite that erotic, asleep or awake.

Another kiss, another - the roaring in her ears was more than their breathing, it almost drowned out his whisper of her name. His other hand slid up her back, and she felt him pressing her slowly backwards, cradling her as he laid her on the desk and loomed over her, and she tugged him down, wanting more than anything to feel his lips against hers -

The Dream dissolved, and she cried out with frustration.

When she opened her eyes, the chaise across from hers was empty. So was the workshop, she discovered; Arthur had taken his coat and gone. The only sign of his presence was a sheet of notepaper weighted by a corner of the machine.

 _I'm sorry_ was all it said.

* * *

Paris in the snow was a bleak cityscape - picturesque as all hell, Arthur had to admit, but bleak. But it suited his mood. He walked for hours along the whitened streets, watching the snow turn gray with dirt as wheels and feet churned it, as machines scraped it away; he paced through areas where tourists never went and places better known for hazards than charm, leaving his own prints behind him, gloved hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His ears burned with the cold and then went numb, but he paid no attention, more interested in setting one foot in front of the other.

It was better than going back to his hotel; he wasn't going to sleep either way, and walking was more distracting.

The whole thing was so damned maddening. Ariadne had handed him the perfect opportunity, and he'd taken it, bewitched by the sensation of freefall - turning daydream into Dream, and confronting her with it.

_I should have known better._

She hadn't been disgusted - she'd taken it as a _challenge._ She hadn't walked away.

He'd barely had time on waking to dose her just a smidge longer, to try to make the break clean. Hurting her - embarrassing her - had made him sick.

Coming back to find his note still there, with _Coward_ written neatly across the bottom, had been the collision with the ground.

Every night he looked through his e-mail to see fresh messages - job offers, mostly. Holiday messages from friends in Beirut and Florida. The occasional dirty joke from Eames. A Christmas e-card from Eric, no doubt as impersonal as the last several.

Arthur opened none of them. _Go,_ he urged himself. _Find someplace warmer, someplace you've never been. You could use a vacation. Just **go.**_

In the end, though, there was only one place. No, not a place, but a person; but now Dom was holding still. And he _had_ promised.

"About time," Dom said when he opened the door. "James asks about every three hours when you'll be getting here."

Arthur managed a smile at his old friend, and stepped past him. "You told him I was coming?"

Dom shrugged, closing the door and reaching for Arthur's carry-on bag. "He sort of picked up the idea on his own. Want a drink?"

Within minutes they were settled in the living room, drinks to hand and the stuffed animals displaced from the chairs. Arthur looked around, aware of an unnatural silence. "So where _are_ the kids?"

"Out shopping with their grandmother. Presumably for Daddy's Christmas present," Dom said wryly, propping his feet on an ottoman. "I give even odds that James will blab before Christmas Eve night."

"No bet." Arthur sipped his beer, appreciating the flavor and feeling the back of his neck relax. "Is Miles coming back for the holiday?"

Dom raised his bottle in an ironic toast. "Yep. Lots of fun."

Arthur tipped his own in response. Dom's in-laws had been divorced for fifteen years; the grandchildren brought them into proximity from time to time, but with a careful politeness that didn't always translate into actual conversation.

They chatted quietly for a while, deliberately avoiding heavier topics. For a little while Arthur pretended that there was nothing wrong at all, that this was just a visit with a friend, not an agonized retreat; and while Dom's gaze was sharper than usual, he said nothing, letting Arthur take the lead. It was a _relief._

But eventually Dom came around to the subject Arthur was hoping he'd avoid. "About that Cobol job…"

Arthur fiddled restlessly with his glass. "It's done."

Dom's lips twitched. "I _know_ that. Suck it up and let me thank you properly. I owe you."

Arthur gave him a driven look. "I didn't do it to put you in my debt," he said stiffly.

"No, you did it because you're my friend." Dom's grip on Arthur's shoulder was hard and warm. "A better one than I deserve, sometimes."

Arthur couldn't deny that the words felt good, but the sensation was overlain by desperate discomfort. Fortunately, before he could embarrass himself searching for words, the quiet was shattered by the pounding of small feet and the smell of pizza. Frances herded in their grandchildren, carrying supper, and for a few minutes it was a confusion of greetings and mittens and sticky hugs. Arthur dutifully admired James' new toy car, and kissed Frances decorously on the cheek.

Dom gave him the raised-browed look that was their old signal for a conversation to be deferred until later, but dinner segued into a game of Candyland, and baths, and bedtime stories. Dom put the kids to bed, but Arthur and Frances had never had much to say to one another, so he read while she tatted lace. And when the children were asleep, somehow that time turned into reminiscing about Mal.

It was strange, after two years, to hear Dom talk about Mal so freely. It wasn't that she'd been a forbidden subject before, exactly, but none of them had felt comfortable discussing her. Now it was clear that Dom and Frances both still grieved, but without the agony of before; every so often Arthur caught the gleam of a tear on the old woman's face, scarcely visible in the low light, but her voice was easy and her stories humorous.

Arthur himself felt almost as if Mal were sitting with them, perching on the edge of her chair in the old way and smiling.

* * *

The guest room in which Arthur's bag reposed was small but comfortable. He lay back on the bed, sitting up against the headboard, and tried to read in the silence of the sleeping house; he knew that sleep wouldn't come for _him_ until nearly dawn, if then. But it was impossible to concentrate, and eventually he laid the book down with a sigh.

_Ariadne._

He'd run - thousands of miles he'd fled - and yet, like Mal, she seemed no further away than the other side of the room. It was _unfair_.

But Arthur had learned long ago that fairness had little to do with what life chose to hand out. And the Ariadne who lingered in his mind's eye watched him reproachfully, without the malice of Dom's shade of Mal but still discomforting.

Arthur had never had much use for guilt; he was practical, and made choices and moved on, seldom spending any time on regret. But it wasn't practicality that drove him finally to his feet and out of the little room.

It was cold enough to nip his ears outside, but the sense of space helped, and the air was sweet. Arthur walked into the woods behind Dom's house, using the moonlight to guide himself along the faint path through the young trees; they were dormant now, and their shed leaves rustled slightly underfoot, scarcely louder than Arthur's own frosting breath.

He hadn't been down this way since Mal's death, but there had been quite a few picnics and walks before that, and he remembered the way even if the trees were taller. Before long the path opened into a small meadow, sere and pale under the moon. Arthur stuck his cold hands in his jacket pockets and stepped out into it.

Ariadne had driven him out of the house, but as he paced, Mal was on his mind - Mal and Dom, as they had been, mates in more ways than one. They had had what Arthur had observed nowhere else, a unity of soul that had served them well in the world of the Dream…for a while. The old sorrow surged as he remembered the early days of their friendship, Dreaming with the two of them, Dom and he fitting together like a hand in a glove and Mal creating glorious cities and teasing Arthur about his taste in art and ties.

Dom had possessed that - and lost it.

Arthur rarely envied anyone, but he'd envied Dom and Mal their unity. After Jeanette, he didn't expect to obtain it himself, but the quiet joy his friends had found in one another had underscored a hunger in his own soul; one he would rather not been aware of, let alone admitted to. _Losing_ that, having the whole torn in two, was a pain he couldn't imagine.

And yet…Dom seemed to have found peace. Arthur had no idea how he'd achieved it, how he'd reconciled a wound that would never fully heal, but the torment was over.

_Ariadne…_

She was so _young._ Fully an adult, to be sure, but just emerging into life, sampling possibilities both legal and criminal. She was ferociously intelligent, quick-witted, suffered no fools. He could appreciate that; he was much the same.

But he was also different. Where she could imagine whole worlds, he was hard-pressed to construct a room; and while she as yet had had no involvement with the law, he had a considerable record.

_Face the real issue. She'll walk away._

He'd shown her a bit of his true self, and she hadn't. But sooner or later she would, just as Jeanette had; he was never enough, he was the dark side, not the bright, and in the end it was the light everyone loved.

Movement at the edge of his vision came at the same time as the rustling sound reached his ears. Arthur turned, but it was only Dom, coming across the meadow, tall and bulky in a puffy coat. He crossed the uneven ground with the ease of familiarity and halted near Arthur, looking up at the setting moon.

"Two a.m.," he said, tired and amused. "Do you _ever_ sleep?"

"On occasion," Arthur said dryly. "I needed some air."

Dom nodded, eyes still on the sky. "What's on your mind?" he asked.

Arthur flexed his cold fingers, unwilling to give even Dom that particular truth. "Just stuff."

The snort was familiar, acknowledging his evasion but letting him get away with it for the moment. "I like it out here," Dom said finally. "In the summer there's deer. It's a good place for thinking."

"You think about deer?"

Dom shoved him with one elbow, and Arthur snickered, feeling some of his tension ease. "You know, if you want to talk…" Dom offered.

Arthur looked away. "It…wouldn't help. But thanks."

Dom sighed, breath pluming. "You always were a stubborn son of a bitch."

Arthur elbowed him back, catching the gleam of Dom's smirk. "Good thing for you that I am."

"True." They were both silent for a while, the moon whitening the meadow and Dom's hair; Arthur felt like it left him dark, but when he looked down he realized that it spilled silver over him as well, profligate and cold.

"I don't know what's bugging you," Dom said eventually. "But you're probably overthinking it."

Arthur raised both brows. "Oh, thanks. That's _so_ much help."

"You didn't ask for help. This is just a public service." Dom smirked again. "I'm going back to bed. Don't freeze to death, all right?"

Arthur watched him crunch away into the woods; after a few minutes, a light sprang up in the distance, barely visible through the trees, and he knew that Dom had left him a beacon.

 _Overthinking it._ Dom knew him too well. Arthur began to walk again, wondering sourly what Mal would have made of his dilemma; she who had never had patience with uncertainty.

 _Oh, for heaven's sake, Arthur._ Her eyes would flash as she frowned, he could see it so vividly. _Do, or don't, but stop **agonizing** over the girl._

 _And which should it be?_ he shot back, exasperated with his own imagining.

Her smile was the sly one that had always boded some mischief - not the cold malice of Dom's shade, but the challenge of the woman who thought life should be lived to its fullest. _Look at your totem._

She was vanishing, her voice fading, but something in him shifted painfully at her words. He could feel his totem in his pants pocket as he walked, that tiny weight, and everything it represented. Her meaning was clear.

Take a chance.

 _Like Dom did?_ The thought was bitter. _He lost._

But the truth persisted. For all Dom had lost, he had the memories. Mal had changed him.

_I don't like change, remember?_

And yet, the craving just under his breastbone was stronger.

Memories.

Arthur realized abruptly that he had circled the meadow at least three times. The moon was nearing the trees and his hands were frozen, and he had to piss.

"Damn you," he said out loud, not even sure whom he addressed. "Don't you ever get tired of being right?"

* * *

Dom asked no questions when Arthur left, just dropping him off at the airport with a slightly puzzled glance and best wishes for the holiday he knew Arthur usually ignored. Arthur read biographies all the way across the Atlantic, trying with only some success to keep his mind occupied, but Ariadne's name still whispered across his consciousness, hastening his stride as he crossed concourses and streets. Paris was no more pleasant than when he'd left; the snow was mostly gone, but the wind was raw and the skies grey.

Arthur didn't care. He stuck to routine because it was what kept him balanced, and besides, Ariadne deserved better than a jetlagged unwashed showing up on her doorstep. So he booked a room and set out his possessions, bathed and shaved and dressed again, and went to find her. To explain, to ask forgiveness, to do he didn't know what, but he had to go. He already knew her address by heart.

She wasn't there.

She wasn't anywhere.


	10. Peace

"I'm sorry to impose," Ariadne said again, staring down into the mug of tea she held. "I just - "

"Will you stop it?" Cobb admonished, and when she looked up he was wearing the gentle smile she remembered. "We're glad to have you."

She shrugged, unable to help smiling back. "Yes, well, it was all Professor M to be honest."

It was strange to sit in a room she'd only seen in a Dream; it was familiar, but there were obvious changes as well - different dishes on the table, different toys on the floor. And the man who sat across from her was no longer driven.

"Miles has his own reasons," Cobb - Dom - said quietly. "But they're always good ones. He was right to bring you - and I owe you, Ariadne. We both do."

She ducked her head, feeling her cheeks warming, and remembered Professor M saying the same thing, months ago.

"Twice over, according to Arthur," Dom added, raising his brows at the flinch she couldn't suppress. "Ah. Miles was right, then. What has Arthur done now?"

Ariadne took a gulp of tea, forcing back the hard lump in her throat and unable to care that Dom could apparently see right through her. "Nothing I shouldn't have expected, I guess."

It had been Tomás who'd found her, hiding in an empty lecture room when the hurt and humiliation had boiled over into furious tears; Tomás who had called Maryse, and Maryse who had arrived with tissues and sympathetic cluckings and who had ratted her out to Professor M. And Professor M had bundled her briskly up and taken her home with him; "For the holidays," he'd said, not giving her time to argue.

It was a pity, some part of Ariadne mused dryly, that she couldn't have made all the flights she'd taken this year under one name; the airline miles would have been considerable.

Dom regarded her steadily, sipping from his own mug before speaking. "He's never been an easy man to know. But in all the conversations we've had since the first Cobol job, your name has come up exactly twice. Eames, on the other hand, was pretty much a constant topic."

Ariadne glared down into her tea again. "That doesn't surprise me."

"It surprises _me._ " Dom leaned forward, catching her gaze. "The more something, or some _one_ , matters to Arthur, the less he talks about them. He mentioned he was hiring you for the job, and he told me what you did to make sure it would succeed. That was all. I've never seen him so closemouthed about _anyone_ he's worked with."

If his words were intended to make her feel better, they weren't working. "Maybe." She worked hard to keep her voice from trembling. "But he's made it very clear that none of it matters."

Dom growled exasperatedly and sat back. "Dammit, Arthur." His smile was sad.

Ariadne shrugged again. "It's not my affair. He got his heart broken, so what? If he wants to let that… _warp_ the rest of his life, it's his problem." Her own damaged heart was _her_ problem.

"Well, it was a little more than that," Dom said, setting down his mug and pulling his totem from his pocket. As Ariadne watched, he nudged a cereal bowl aside and spun it in the clear space. "Did he tell you about his fiancée?"

Ariadne blinked. "Not that they were going to be married." It was a small, unpleasant shock.

Dom didn't lift his gaze from the top. "Yes, well. She left him for his twin brother. Eric was the only family he had left, and while they weren't the best of friends then, that pretty much severed the connection."

That made her wince despite herself. For someone like Arthur, who had few human connections and held them deeply when he did, it must have been a double betrayal. _To…care, for him, is to lose._

"Yes," Dom said, watching her face now. "It's a risk, a big one. And he's never been too good with risk."

Ariadne let his words sink in, as the top wobbled and finally toppled, spinning out with a tiny clink as it hit the bowl. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked at last. "It's…"

"Not my place to tell you? Maybe not," Dom said, his smile going crooked. "But you deserve to know. Because he doesn't do this lightly, Ariadne. If he's hurt you this badly it means he's hurting pretty bad himself. We've been friends for years, and I have never, not _once_ , seen him more than mildly interested in someone, and it never came to anything. You _matter_ to him." He scooped up the top and put it away. "He may not be able to say yes to you, but it's not for lack of feeling."

Her head ached, exhaustion and jet lag and frustration all combined. "I…I don't know what to think."

"Dom, let the poor child get some sleep." Professor M spoke from the hallway, ambling slowly into the kitchen. "Ariadne, my dear, your case is in the guest room at the end of the hall. We shall not call you for breakfast." He patted her shoulder.

They were all so gracious. Ariadne changed into pajamas in the cozy little room, and brushed her teeth in its bathroom, listening to the high-pitched calls and laughter as the children came in with their grandmother from the backyard. She was curious about them, the kids whose forms she had seen but whose faces had ever been turned away, but Ariadne was too tired to pursue the desire now. The voices hushed under Dom's firm command, and Ariadne lay down on the bed, where late afternoon sun warmed the sheets.

She was asleep before the sun faded, and she did not dream.

* * *

Ariadne found herself fitting into the routines of Dom's family without much trouble, helping with the dishes and rather bemusedly playing ponies with Philippa upon request. The children were excited about Christmas coming, though James was really too young to understand the concept; as far as Ariadne could tell, they didn't miss their mother at all.

Dom did; that was clear. The peace he'd found in Limbo had not erased his grief, merely made it cleaner; and Ariadne could see that while Professor M had forgiven his son-in-law for Mal's death, Mal's mother had not, not entirely. Still, she obviously doted on the children, and the tensions were kept out of the way - whether because of the presence of a guest, the upcoming holiday, or a desire to not trouble the children, Ariadne didn't know.

Dom didn't bring up the subject of Arthur again, but he did tell a few stories that included him, casually bringing them out in the midst of other conversations. Ariadne drank them in, half against her will, the hurt too raw to seal just yet.

Though hearing the naked-in-a-stadium story from Dom's point of view made her laugh until she cried…

It was a family unlike her own noisy, close-minded clan; people who treated her as an adult and an honored guest rather than a rebellious child. They had seen more of the world than her parents and brothers even knew existed, and weren't shy about sharing their experiences or soliciting her opinion.

It was a strange, unlooked-for peace, and for the moment it was enough.

* * *

Going to Christmas Eve service with Dom's family reminded Ariadne of her childhood; it was a different denomination and a different congregation, but the hushed rustles and giggles were the same, the candlelight was the same; the pageant had different kids, but it too was the same, a clumsy reenactment made holy by the faith of those who watched and those who recited. Ariadne found herself smiling as James squirmed with excitement on his father's lap, just barely restrained from calling out to his shepherd sister as she knelt beside a manger filled with straw and a swaddled doll. Ariadne had done it herself, long ago, though she'd played Mary instead and the infant Jesus had been the placid, blinking son of one of her cousins.

She sang along with the familiar hymns and listened to the Word, but for all her resolution she couldn't help thinking of Arthur. What was he doing, where was he now? Celebrating Christmas alone? Or ignoring it, and passing yet another night in books and soaring music?

Separate from her own churn of anger and exasperation and longing, it hurt to think of him so solitary. She'd thought he was alone by choice; knowing that those he loved the most had walked away from him made Ariadne a little ashamed of her assumptions. _It's not like he said anything,_ she reminded herself, but what Dom had told her made Arthur's choices more logical. It stung, badly, to know that she wasn't enough for him, but - _That's how it is sometimes._

Still, she walked out of the service more melancholy than when she'd entered it, and as Dom drove them all back to his home she wondered dismally if she shouldn't just leave, rather than dragging down the holiday mood. It felt strange to watch as the children hung up their stockings with great ceremony before Frances bustled them off to bed; Ariadne pulled off her coat and gloves and took a seat next to the twinkling Christmas tree, and tried to summon up some polite enthusiasm to get her through the rest of the evening.

Professor M hung up his overcoat and took himself into the kitchen to make buttered rum, waving aside her half-hearted demurral. Dom emerged from his room with one more wrapped box, but before he could put it under the tree the house phone rang.

He answered it, idly thrusting the box under his arm. "Hello?"

Ariadne tried not to pay attention, but the way Dom straightened and looked over at her had her curious. "Yeah," Dom said into the phone, half a smile twisting his lips. "Yeah, he did….No, I _didn't_ , how was I supposed to know that?"

Ariadne frowned at him, puzzled by the intensity of his stare. "Yes, well, she's right here, do you want to - " He blinked. "You seriously expect me to - oh, all right, okay, good grief. Yeah, merry Christmas."

He thumbed the phone off and gave Ariadne a look that she could only term exasperated. "You didn't turn your cell back on yet, did you?"

Her hand went automatically to her pocket; she'd shut the device off for the church service. "No, I forgot."

Dom nodded once, and glanced back over his shoulder towards the kitchen. "Miles, you old baba, you're in trouble," he called, then turned back to Ariadne. "Arthur says to tell you he's at the Stapler if you still want to talk to him. Room 620."

The ice that sluiced over her was breathtaking, but one corner of Ariadne's mind suspected that Dom had translated rather freely from the original. Heat followed on the heels of the cold, and Ariadne found herself on her feet, unable to identify the emotion coursing through her, though she thought there might be some rage in there - or maybe it was fear. She had to try twice to get her voice to work. "Where is it?"

"I'll drive you," Dom said, and set the package down.

Ariadne found her coat again and fastened it with clumsy fingers while Dom went to fetch his keys. Professor M wandered out of the kitchen, mug in hand and a decidedly smug expression on his face. "Well, well, I was beginning to think he'd never get off the mark."

Dom reappeared, shooting his father-in-law a sharp look. "We'll discuss this when I get back," he said. Professor M scoffed, but Ariadne ignored him, already heading for the door.

Neither of them said anything on the short drive to the hotel. On some level Ariadne felt she should be embarrassed, but the tangle of feeling pounding through her allowed no lesser emotion. The traffic was light; when she saw the sign for the Stapler Hotel in the distance, Ariadne turned to Dom. "Stop the car."

He gave her another exasperated look, but obeyed, pulling over to the curb. Ariadne took off her seatbelt, and he frowned. "What are you doing?"

She opened the door. "Walking the rest of the way. I need to think."

Dom started to protest, then sighed. "Do me a favor and turn your phone back on, all right?"

She did so on the spot, holding it up to show him the lit screen before climbing out of the minivan. Before closing the door, she leaned back in. "Dom…thanks."

He laughed, a rueful sound. "Don't kill him, okay? We might need him later."

"No promises," Ariadne said, and pushed the door closed.

She _tried_ to think as she strode along the pavement, but the storm of emotion made it hard, and by the time she reached the hotel she was half-running, cold and hot together, with no idea what she'd find or what she'd say. The desk attendant looked askance as she whisked past him, but he didn't try to stop her, and fortunately for her temper an elevator was waiting.

The sixth-floor hallway was plushly carpeted and utterly neutral. All the doors were shut, and for a moment it felt like Arthur's Dream, walking along and seeing them all blank. But this corridor had an end, and before she reached it she came to 620.

Ariadne knocked, hard enough to be heard despite her gloves. For a long moment nothing happened, and her heart quailed.

Then the bolt clicked, and the door opened. Arthur stood looking down at her, dressed in nothing but an undershirt and boxers, his feet bare and his eyes dark-circled. There was no expression on his face, though the fingers holding the door were white-knuckled.

And in that moment, she knew exactly what to say.

"You _idiot,_ " Ariadne snapped.

Arthur reached out one long arm and pulled her inside, letting the door slam behind them. "Yes," he said, and his hands felt like brands on her cold cheeks. His eyes glittered as he bent, and Ariadne grabbed hold of whatever she could reach as his mouth came down on hers, hot and sweet and so electric that it ran out to every cell in her body.

It wasn't rage now, it was triumph, an insane exhilaration that outstripped even the joy of creating a Dream. Arthur's hands stroked roughly through her hair, tugged her closer, and all the while their lips never parted, because learning the taste of him was more important right now than anything else.

Somehow Ariadne managed to work her gloves off and drop them. His nape radiated heat against her chilled fingers, and she almost laughed, because a man so cool should not be warm to the touch. She stretched up on her tiptoes, glad that her boots had at least a little heel to them.

His hands were fisted in her jacket now, and Ariadne pulled away long enough to gulp a breath. "Here - " She fumbled with the zipper, yanking it down, and shrugged the garment impatiently away, not caring when it fell to the floor. Arthur's fingers stroked down her arms, apparently liking the texture of her sweater, but when she kissed him again they tightened convulsively. She leaned into his grip, curving her palms around his hips, feeling his skin just as hot there.

He had a clever mouth, greedy and coaxing by turns, turning her spine to liquid. Ariadne let him take her weight and nipped his bottom lip lightly, wanting to leave some small mark of possession. The sound he made was not quite a groan.

When she slid a hand beneath the hem of his undershirt, Arthur stiffened, lifting his head. Ariadne hesitated, but he didn't release her; his eyes were dark, looking down at her as if in disbelief.

_Maybe it **is** disbelief._

Very deliberately, she placed both palms on the firmness of his abdomen, sliding upward and gathering his shirt on the way, giving him ample opportunity to stop her. But he didn't, and she could feel a faint trembling under her fingers that she didn't think was a chill. When her fingers grazed over his nipple, he sucked in a hard breath and let her go, but only to pull the shirt off over his head.

Ariadne smiled, and leaned in to kiss what her hands had touched. Arthur smelled utterly delicious, cotton and citrus and warm male, but she only got about five seconds to savor it before his fingers under her chin brought their lips together again, hot and slick and drugging. She fumbled for his hands, circled his wrists, brought them up to the buttons on her sweater, and to her relief he worked them open swiftly, starting in the middle and working up, then going back for the last few. It was easy to wriggle out of the sweater, and she reached up for the clasp on her bra, grateful it latched in front, because getting the other kind open always had a faint air of hilarity and she wasn't in the _mood._

He was all over her skin, leaving welcome fingerprints, his touch lingering on the curve of her collarbone and then dropping to the admittedly slight slope of her breasts. She wasn't in the mood to apologize for that either, just now, not when the slow slide was making her whimper into his mouth.

He muttered something against her cheekbone, then spread a palm across her belly and repeated it more clearly. "Birth control - Ariadne, I don't have - "

She reached up again, because the feel of his nape was really addictive. "Pill," she said firmly.

His smile was more addictive, but she didn't get a lot of time to think about it. Ariadne wasn't sure which one of them urged the other to the bed, but then the sheets were a flash of cold against her back and Arthur was running his hands down her legs to pull off her boots. He went back for the leggings - Christmas or not, she wasn't wearing pantyhose in this weather - and she couldn't stand it any longer and yanked him down to her.

Linear thought stopped. It was slow-motion lust and a sharp, long-deferred delight, blushing under his hungry gaze when he freed her of skirt and panties as well, and grinning in approval when she finally took off his boxers. Arthur didn't lose control so much as set it aside; overwhelming her with mouth and hands and his voice vibrating against her skin, all of which ached for him. He fit into her body like the answer to a question, and Ariadne cupped his face in her hands as he held her, those narrow suspicious eyes now wide and dazed, and kissed him until there was nothing else in the world.

She'd expected it to be fast, at least this first time, but it wasn't; it was long and slow and achingly sweet. The feel of his muscles bunching under hands, of him sliding in and out of her, of his breath on her neck, wrapped her up in a cocoon of exquisite pleasure, and she lost track of everything but the fact that it was Arthur in her arms at last, in all his stubborn thoroughness, restraint discarded and that deep voice stumbling over the syllables of her name. And when the bliss rose up and drowned her, it was his she cried out, triumph and amazement together.

She clutched him close as he shuddered again and again, and smiled when he did not let her go.

* * *

There wasn't much to see outside the hotel window, just a scrap of scrubland and the parking lot below, but Arthur spotted glitter in the air beneath the pole lights, and realized that it was snowing.

He stood looking out at the night, caught in an odd peace. Ariadne slept in the wide bed behind him, curled neatly with her hands tucked beneath her chin and her hair a wild tangle; he'd actually slept too, for _hours._ It astounded him - he hadn't slept more than three hours at a stretch in years, and yet five at least had passed in deep slumber.

He would have felt guilty about it if Ariadne hadn't fallen asleep first.

 _Ariadne_. It was a stunned murmur now, and Arthur reflected that in his deepest heart - or gear - he'd never really believed that she did want him, even temporarily. Despite her forthrightness.

He still wasn't entirely convinced…but she was still there. And judging from the way she'd curled up _around_ him earlier, she had no intention of leaving just yet.

Arthur let out a silent breath and leaned his forehead against the window, ignoring the chill of the glass against his skin. His totem sat on the table next to the bed, and if he were so fanciful as to believe that inanimate objects had souls, he would have thought it to be mocking him, even though he'd already thrown it twice. He'd never been afraid to roll it before.

But both times it had told him he wasn't in a Dream. He wasn't sure if that frightened him more.

He wasn't sure why he'd made the choice he had, either. But finding Ariadne gone from Paris entirely had crystallized the urgency in his blood, giving him a focus he'd thought impossible. It all might yet come crashing down, but he had to at least _try._

The voice speaking sleepily behind him should have startled him, but it didn't. "Are you flashing the neighborhood for a reason?"

The smile felt unexpectedly good. Arthur straightened and twitched the curtain back into place, returning the room to gloom, but a moment later Ariadne switched on one of the bedside lamps, and he turned to regard her. She was sitting up, the sheet pooled around her waist, and her smirk widened as the light revealed the boxers he'd pulled back on. "Oh, darn."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're shameless."

"Yep," she agreed. "What are you doing up?"

He looked her over for a long, slow minute, equally shameless, and was delighted on some deeply masculine level to see a flush spread from her cheeks downward, though her stare didn't waver. "You have to ask?"

Her cheeks went from pink to crimson, but she laughed, and Arthur found himself laughing too. With one smooth movement he launched himself back into the bed, sliding up the mattress and kissing whatever stretches of skin he could reach along the way. Ariadne purred and wound herself around him, and he finished with a kiss aimed at her mouth but that ended up on her chin. "Hold…" This time he hit the target. "…still."

Her _Nope_ was a vibration against his lips, and he felt her hands tugging at his waistband. Further discussion was postponed.

Later, when she was stretched over him like a blanket, he looked down at the dark hair under his stroking hand. "Not Sleeping Beauty," he said, and rubbed a strand through his fingers. "More like Snow White, with that skin."

Ariadne sniffed, though her lips turned up in a pleased smile. "Waiting for Prince Charming? No thank you. I had one of those already."

"Boring?" he ventured, smirking, and she laughed.

"No…well, yes, a little. Oh, stop it," she added as his grin widened. "It wasn't his fault; he was just part of the whole small-town thing."

"I'd never have taken you for an urban snob."

"It's not that," Ariadne said thoughtfully, resting her arms across his chest and her chin on her hands. "More like…home was too small for me. I could have stayed - he proposed twice before I left - but I wanted something else. Something _bigger._ "

"And look where it got you," Arthur said, not entirely teasing. "Filthy rich, on the wrong side of the law, and in bed with a professional thief wanted in three countries."

"Three?" she said, yawning. "Archie missed a couple then. Well, I suppose I just think villains are more interesting."

That made him blink. Ariadne peered at him, her expression going a little uncertain. "Not that I think you're really a villain, you know…I mean…"

Arthur laid a finger against her lips. "I know." The idea that she might like him _for_ his differences instead of despite them was an unsettling thought.

Ariadne nipped his finger gently. "Dmph," she said around it, then released him. "Dom told me some things about you. It's probably more than you want me to know, but I'm just saying, I'm not leaving until you tell me to go."

He knew she didn't mean the hotel room. Arthur swallowed, and touched her lip again, fitting his fingertip against that intriguing dip at last; Dom's secret-spilling seemed a small thing next to the satiny texture of her mouth. "Even though I'm an idiot?"

Her grin was very smug. "I'd say you definitely redeemed yourself." She smothered another yawn, and he had to laugh, just a low breath of amusement.

"Go back to sleep," he told her. "I'll wake you when room service opens."

"Mmkay." Ariadne moved to slither off him, but he caught her close.

"No, stay here."

She hummed, eyes sliding shut.

Arthur held her, and let dawn walk up from the east, wanting nothing more, just then, than he already had.


	11. A Merry Chase

On reflection, Ariadne was a little surprised to wake up and find Arthur not only still in the room but still playing pillow for her. _It's his room, dummy, where is he going to go_ crossed her sleepy mind, but she knew very well that nothing would keep him in a place he thought he should leave.

But he _was_ there, a warm hard cushion under her ear - one that rose and fell slowly with his breathing, though by the gentle movement of his thumb back and forth along her shoulder she knew him to be awake.

She was thirsty and she had to pee, but Ariadne didn't want to break the peace just yet. She opened her eyes enough to see the gray light of morning edging the curtains, and closed them again. "Mmm. G'morning."

"Hey there," Arthur said, gently humorous. "You're early."

She smiled against his chest. "I never could sleep in on Christmas morning."

He stiffened slightly, a barely perceptible shift in the muscles beneath her. "Christmas. I…forgot."

"Eh." Ariadne rolled off him so she could stretch luxuriously, ending up on her stomach so she could see him properly. "Not everybody celebrates it, you know."

She knew it wasn't that, but admitting that she knew he had no family to celebrate _with_ would open a fresh can of worms that she really didn't want to deal with just yet.

Arthur, propped up with pillows against the headboard, looked more melancholy than someone who'd had a night of great sex had any right to look; but then he reached out to gently push her hair out of her eyes, and his face softened with a smile. "Do I lose points if I say I didn't bring you anything?"

She grinned at him, wicked. "Trust me. You did."

It was worth any number of awkward moments to see him blush beet-red, and worth even more to win the laugh that followed. "Touché."

"That too." Her grin widened, and Ariadne slid off the bed and stood, to give him a moment to recover. "Can I borrow your shirt?" Normally she wouldn't even bother to ask, but this was Arthur after all.

He cleared his throat. "Sure. I think there's a robe in the bathroom if you want that too."

"'Nks." She scooped up the dress shirt draped over the nearest chair and put it on; it was at least longer than her sweater. "Back in a few minutes."

The hard light of the bathroom made Ariadne feel grubby and messy, but use of the facilities and borrowing Arthur's toothpaste and comb improved her outlook somewhat. She lined the comb up precisely as she'd found it, smiling a little at the evidence of his neatness, and pulled on the thick terry robe that was much too long for her. _More comfortable than the shirt, though,_ she thought, hanging the latter on the hook where she'd found the robe. _My butt's not hanging out this way._

When she opened the door, Arthur was just putting down the room's phone. He was now wearing his boxers and a faded UNIDAC Lunar t-shirt, and while part of her mourned the covering up, Ariadne had to admit he looked very good scruffy as well. It was definitely the first time she'd seen him needing a shave, for one thing.

"I went ahead and ordered breakfast." He wore the narrow-eyed gaze that usually meant either disapproval or discomfort; it made Ariadne's heart sink a little, but she placed her bets on the latter and smiled brightly at him.

"Excellent. By the way, how did you know where the heck I _was?_ "

Arthur blinked, his posture loosening, and he gave her a smirk. "It's what I do, Ariadne."

She rolled her eyes, and wandered over to put her arms around him, reasoning that she might as well begin as she meant to go on. "I'm glad you found me," she said to his chest.

His return embrace was stronger than she expected, and the press of his lips against the crown of her head put a lump in her throat. "So am I," he muttered, almost too low for her to make out, and she just squeezed him tighter.

He felt good in her arms, Ariadne realized; tall and tough, and still tense despite the night they'd just passed. She pressed her cheek against his chest, wishing as usual that _she_ was taller, but otherwise content.

Arthur held her almost too tightly, and Ariadne wondered what was going on in his head, though she thought she could guess. It was going to take some doing to convince him that she wasn't going anywhere.

… _When did this get so serious?_ The question made her blink. When had her interest in the enigmatic point man gone from casual to this stubborn intensity?

 _Later._ Arthur sighed, and Ariadne tightened her arms once more before letting go. "I'm _starving._ "

He laughed, hands sliding down to linger briefly at her hips before releasing her. "I'm not surprised."

That made her flush again, and Ariadne scowled at him cheerfully. "You should be too."

"Didn't say I wasn't," he pointed out amiably, and tapped her nose with his forefinger before sliding past her. "Excuse me a minute."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and Ariadne yawned and wandered over to part the curtains and look out. A thick layer of snow whitened the landscape and the few cars parked in the lot, though someone had obviously cleared the asphalt at some point. The sky was a heavy gray, but the air was clear, and Ariadne took in the view for a few minutes, remembering past Christmases. It felt strange, and a little dishonest, to be on the same continent when she'd had no plans to go home for the holiday; she had yet to inform her family that she was no longer poor, and they had assumed that she couldn't afford the trip.

 _Just tell them it was a design job. It's not like you have to tell them how **much** you made._ And to be honest, they would have no idea what price that kind of job would bring anyway.

But as insular as they were, as much as they had scoffed at her dreams and told her to be practical, she did love them, and lying to them on what would probably be a continual basis made her feel sick. She might be able to explain extraction to them, but they would never approve of her part in it. And with reason.

" _We're nothing more than sneak thieves."_ It was true -

The bathroom door opened, and Ariadne stuffed the thought back down, much more interested in Arthur just then. He had combed his hair, she saw as she turned, but without gel it waved slightly; but as for the rest of him…

"You couldn't stand it, could you?" Ariadne teased, walking over and lifting a hand to his cheek; the skin was smooth again, and slightly damp.

His return smile was wry, but then he bent to place a slow kiss just in front of her ear. "I have plans for you later," he whispered, and she wasn't sure whether it was his breath or his tone that made her shiver. "And there are places where beard burn is a bad thing."

Ariadne's eyes fluttered closed, and despite hunger and her lack of a shower she was seriously tempted to take hold of him and make _later_ become _now_ , but a knock on the door interrupted before she could make up her mind. Arthur's fingers tilted her chin up for another swift kiss, this one on her lips, and then he was striding over to open the door and take delivery on breakfast.

They were halfway through their eggs and toast when Ariadne's cellphone rang. She started at the sound, and Arthur raised his brows and reached back to grab her purse from the chair where it had ended up. Ariadne fished out her phone, and felt her cheeks heating when she saw it was Dom calling.

"I take it you didn't kill him," was his greeting, and Ariadne rolled her eyes.

"Merry Christmas to you too." Across from her, Arthur spread jelly on another slice of toast and watched her with amused eyes; clearly he knew who it was. "No, I didn't."

Dom chuckled. "Glad to hear it. Christmas dinner is at six; should we set two more places?"

Ariadne thought about it, tilted the phone away from her mouth, and cocked a brow at Arthur. "We're invited to dinner."

"Up to you," he said easily, setting down his knife, and Ariadne brought the phone back up.

"We'll be there."

Dom's voice grew fainter - "You owe me ten bucks, Miles - " and then was close again. "Good. I'll drop your bag off at the front desk on the way to church, and we'll see you at six."

She would _not_ blush again, Ariadne told herself resolutely, and kept her tone light. "That would be great, thanks. See you then." She thumbed the off-button and sighed, setting down the phone and reaching for her coffee. "Professor M is never going to let me hear the last of this."

Arthur snickered, and passed her the butter.

* * *

It was a strange day. Arthur found himself reacting rather than acting, letting events and Ariadne unfold as they wished; and they did with slow sweetness, from leisurely breakfast to separate showers - the stall was too small to share - to a gentle stroll through the gray-and-white day. He found himself wanting to touch Ariadne nearly all the time, to take her hand or put an arm around her or just brush her hair back behind her ear, as if the simple contact would prove that she was there. She seemed to want the same, however, her gloved hand finding his and linking fingers in a secure grip. When they came abreast of a church, Ariadne asked shyly if he would mind if she went in for a moment.

Arthur didn't know why she thought he might object, and when she freed her hand to leave him, he found himself taking it back and following her inside.

He'd never been religious; no one in his life had offered more than the vaguest gestures in the direction of any faith. Slipping into a back pew with Ariadne, trying to draw no attention from the people engrossed in the ongoing service, was a new experience.

In fact, the whole thing felt surreal, as if he'd wandered onto a movie set - it was stranger, even, than a Dream. Ariadne seemed more or less at home in it, though, opening the bulletin she'd picked up when they'd entered and somehow finding her place.

Arthur didn't bother looking over her shoulder, though he echoed her when she and the congregation stood or sat. She sang, too, her voice high and pleasant and ordinary, and when the congregation began a carol Arthur recognized, he let himself join in, keeping his own voice soft. Ariadne shot him a startled glance when he did, but her sudden smile was dazzling.

He really had no idea how long a Christmas service was supposed to last, but they had been there about forty minutes and were halfway through "Joy to the World" when Ariadne zipped up her jacket and herded him gently towards the door.

"Why are we leaving early?" he asked curiously as they emerged into the cold noon.

"Self-preservation. If we stay to the end, people'll start asking questions and being all _friendly._ " Ariadne's droll tone made him grin.

"Yes, we wouldn't want that." He took her hand again.

HIs hotel room was warm when they reached it, the bed remade and the towels replaced; Housekeeping was efficient, Arthur noted with approval. He hung up his coat and looked over at Ariadne, who had claimed the desk chair to remove her boots. The sight of her bent over them, hair half-obscuring her grimace as she wrestled with a knot, shifted something inside him, slipping it into place. It felt like a release, strange and surprising.

Ariadne set the second boot aside as he moved towards her, and looked up at him, puffing an errant strand of hair out of her face. "Do you want - "

It was so easy to lift her up, her arms so small and strong in his hands. She squeaked, a sound he was rapidly finding as endearing as her giggle, and he captured it with his mouth.

He started it; but she rapidly took control of things, and Arthur was too delighted to argue, finding himself spread out on the bed and Ariadne grinning as she took her time exploring him. It was a new experience, letting someone else make the choices, but Ariadne had a way of sliding past his defenses before he could even formulate a protest, and having those long-fingered hands traveling over his skin was far too distracting. She learned him the way he himself might learn the landscape of a Dream, hunting out secrets and pathways, until he couldn't stand it any longer and dragged her down to him, kissing away her teasing smile and promising silently to return the favor…later.

When he could think again.

* * *

The drive to Dom's place was short, and neither of them spoke; words didn't seem to be necessary at the moment. Ariadne adjusted the passenger seat so she could lean back and watch the snowy world outside, and Arthur carefully kept himself from watching her as he drove; the road was clear, but he tried to avoid accidents, thank you.

On some level he was aware that his thinking wasn't exactly clear; there were too many endorphins in his system at the moment for him to be purely objective. But as Ariadne's hand stole out to rest against his leg, he couldn't bring himself to care, either.

The pleasurable mist lifted somewhat when they reached the house, however. Arthur blinked as he halted the car. "What the hell?"

The scene was chaotic. Dom was running across his front yard with his son in hot pursuit; Philippa shrieked from behind a low rampart of snow, hurling snowballs with indiscriminate fervor. At the other end of the yard, Frances was throwing them with more selection and a deadly accuracy; as they watched, she hit her son-in-law square on the back of his head, the snowball exploding and Dom letting loose a laughing roar of outrage.

Ariadne started to laugh too, and was out of the car almost before Arthur shut off the engine. He watched bemusedly as she dove behind Philippa's fort and started adding to the chaos.

Arthur didn't move. Staying in the car seemed the safest course of action.

Dom scooped James up and chased Frances down, holding up his son so James could pelt his grandmother from a distance of about a foot. She retreated with exaggerated fear, and James screamed with delight, squirming to be put down. Arthur watched with amusement as James turned traitor the moment his feet hit the ground, joining forces with Frances to chase Dom back towards the center of the yard. Struck from both sides, Dom staggered theatrically, then charged towards the car.

Arthur lowered the window as he approached, grinning at his white-spattered friend. Dom's face was lit with fun under his slightly ridiculous bobbled hat. "Sanctuary," he pleaded, resting gloved hands on the window's edge.

"Forget it." Arthur shook his head at the snow caking Dom's pants and jacket.

"Neatnik." Before Arthur could react, Dom reached in and flicked off the lock, opening the door and grabbing Arthur's arm.

Arthur cursed, shoved, swung at Dom and missed, and did all he could to prevent it, but Dom's grip was too strong, and he found himself hauled out into the the frigid air and dragged into the yard. Cries of triumph rang on all sides, and snowballs flew. Not all of them hit their targets, but Arthur couldn't duck them _all._

It wasn't his sort of thing in the least; but the sight of Ariadne helpless with laughter next to a bouncing Philippa was just too much to resist. Arthur bent, gathered snow in his gloves, and pasted his lover's face with a precise shot. He took one second to savor her stunned gape before discarding dignity completely and tackling Dom, intent on stuffing as much snow as possible down the latter's collar.

Dom outweighed him, but Arthur was faster; however, both advantages were quickly made moot when the rest of the combatants descended on the wrestling match with whoops and more snow. In the end, it was a draw - if something closely resembling a puppy pile could even merit the term, Arthur reflected as he fought off Ariadne's attempt to steal his gloves and let Philippa pin his legs. Still, Dom was on the bottom and he wasn't, which was what counted.

It was Miles' voice that ended the fun, cutting through the noise firmly. "Dinner's almost ready, children. Time to get cleaned up." He stood in the doorway, peering out at them with sardonic amusement.

There were groans of disappointment from some participants. Arthur helped Frances to her feet and turned to Ariadne, but she was already up, breathless and snowy, reaching up to brush futilely at his disarray. "You're a mess, I'm afraid," she said, eyes twinkling.

"So are you." Arthur put an arm around her shoulders, turning her towards the house. Ahead of them, Dom had one child beneath each arm and was marching toward the door; Frances was settling her jacket and her dignity. Ariadne was watching Dom, and so it was easy to slip his handful of snow between her scarf and her neck.

Her shriek was enough to make Arthur start running, grateful that his legs were longer than hers. He beat Dom inside, Miles prudently stepping out of the way, but when he glanced back from the safety of the hall, the old man was nowhere to be seen and Dom was wearing a grin. A moment later, Ariadne tumbled inside, equally amused, and closed the door behind her.

"Where's Miles?" Arthur asked, puzzled.

Ariadne strode past him, nose in the air. "Later for you," was all she said, and behind her Dom laughed.

"He's in a clinch with Frances. They always get sentimental this time of year." He set down his kids and started peeling off their jackets.

 _Oh._ Arthur shrugged. _Here's hoping they don't freeze._

Dinner was less awkward than he was anticipating, though the food no doubt helped. Miles was an excellent cook when he put his mind to it, and Arthur hoped that Frances had made the pies, because Dom's uselessness in the kitchen was legendary. And though all the adults knew the situation between Arthur and Ariadne, no one commented.

In fact, Arthur reflected over his empty plate, it had been the best Christmas he'd spent in years - if the oddest. Family dinners, if they could be graced with such a term, had ceased upon his parents' deaths; and while he'd been invited to share the holiday when Mal was still alive, he'd always declined.

Now, watching Frances wipe James' face for him and Ariadne smile back over her glass, he wondered if it had been a mistake to turn them down.

After dessert there was a fire in the fireplace, and cognac for the adults, and Philippa's train set to be put together and enjoyed. Arthur claimed one of the recliners and watched as Dom and Ariadne strung track together and argued amiably over the best path for the train; Miles was in the other armchair, glasses sliding down his nose as he read to James from one of the boy's new books. Frances tatted and watched the others, her _vieux Parisienne_ face wearing an expression of contentment that was close to smugness. Philippa hooked the train's cars together on the rug and made choo-choo noises, imagination unimpaired by the lack of a finished track.

Part of him kept waiting for something to interrupt it all, to bring the pleasant ease to an end - an argument, a phone call, an unwelcome visitor. But nothing happened. The train was set in motion, clicking and whistling its way around the track; James fell asleep on his grandfather's lap, and Miles fell asleep holding him; the tree's lights continued to twinkle serenely, tiny flares of color like stars undimmed by atmosphere. When his cognac was gone, Arthur eased himself to his feet and slipped into the kitchen.

He had the dishwasher mostly loaded when Frances spoke behind him. "We usually leave it for tomorrow, you know."

Arthur glanced back at her, dropping a last fork into the silverware basket. "I like cleaning up."

And it was true; disorder bothered him, but he also _enjoyed_ the process of neatening, be it a space or a collection or just something dirtied. Frances lifted her hands in a gesture of resignation, and found him a chef's apron to cover his vest and pants, donning another to tackle the turkey carcass.

After a while Ariadne wandered in, smiling at the sight of him arms' deep in soapy water in the sink, though Arthur couldn't imagine what about the situation amused her. He expected a teasing comment, but she merely fetched a dishtowel and started drying the pots he'd already washed.

They worked together in peaceful silence, punctuated only by the occasional soft curse from Frances. When the dishes were done, Ariadne wiped down the counters while Arthur hung up the apron and rolled down his sleeves; he was more than a little startled when she came over and plucked the links from his fingers to finish fastening his cuffs herself, but he managed to school his expression before she looked up. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

He half-expected her to claim an old boyfriend, but instead she rolled her eyes. "Three brothers, two cousins, and my best friend growing up. I was the only girl allowed in the groom's room at any of the weddings."

And suddenly he could see it, her dry humor diffusing the sweaty tension while she straightened ties and inserted boutonnières, small and female and completely unintimidated by the nervous testosterone surrounding her. "Bridesmaid?"

"Twice. Plus one maid of honor, one usher, and one best woman. Drove my mother up the wall." Her lips twisted wryly. "She's a traditionalist."

Yes, the wife and homemaker, who had raised three blue-collar boys and - judging from what Ariadne had said earlier - had probably expected her daughter to follow in her own footsteps, not ditch her boyfriend and take off for Europe and a high-level career. Arthur wondered suddenly, irreverently, what she would make of _him._

And equally suddenly, wondered if he would ever find out.

Frances sighed audibly. "Ariadne, cherie, would you fetch me the big stock pot from the pantry? This will make soup if it will fit."

Ariadne grinned and left him. Arthur tugged his cuffs into place and returned to the living room, only to find that Dom and Philippa had joined the others in slumber, Dom stretched out on his back on the carpet and Philippa snuggled into his side, head pillowed on his stomach. Arthur smirked, and took a photo with his cellphone. _It's always good to have blackmail material on hand._

Ariadne came up beside him and made a tiny _aww_ noise. Arthur looked down at her, and doubt suddenly reared up from under his breastbone, and struck. "Are you coming back with me?" he asked softly.

"I'd better, my suitcase is still in your room," Ariadne said, lifting her own phone and wincing slightly at the flash.

The doubt threatened to turn into something darker. _Is that it?_ a small voice asked bitterly in his head. _She got what she wanted and now she's going to -_

Ariadne glanced up at him. "Do you mind if I stay another night?"

The voice choked off as Arthur recognized the same doubt in her hesitant tone. For answer, he curled a finger beneath her chin, bent, and assured them both.

* * *

It was good to wake up slowly, wrapped in blankets, even if the mattress was a bit too soft for her taste. Ariadne let herself drift for a while, eyes closed, knowing that Arthur was not in the bed but nevertheless not alarmed. She could hear the soft _shush_ of pages turning somewhere nearby, and there was coffee in the air.

Contentment was not something she experienced often; there was too much to do, too many goals and challenges she hadn't yet met. But here, in this little space of time, there was nothing demanding her immediate attention - not even that long-unfulfilled yearning.

 _Not unfulfilled any more._ Her grin was entirely internal. While it was rarely wise to extrapolate from just a few examples, so far the chemistry between her and Arthur was living up to its promise; and as a lover, he was both much more experienced, and more attentive to detail, than any she'd had previously. Which didn't surprise her.

It had worried her briefly, the inequity, because for all her assumed confidence Ariadne knew experience was something she was lacking. But Arthur didn't seem to mind. _And I learn fast._

"Do you want breakfast before you shower again?" Arthur asked, even though she hadn't moved. Ariadne rolled over and blinked blearily at him; he was sitting at the table with a newspaper and a coffee cup, smiling slightly as he read; wearing a shirt and boxers once more, and looking adorably tousled.

She didn't even bother asking how he'd known she was awake. "Coffee, shower, food." She muffled a yawn with one hand. "Good morning."

This time he looked up, the smile widening into the expression she'd only seen a few times, one that hovered between smug and tender. "Good morning," he answered obediently.

Ariadne smiled back; she couldn't help it. She sat up slowly, smoothing down the sleep shirt she'd pulled from her case the night before. They had both been too tired to do more than curl up together in the bed, or at least she had been and Arthur had given a good imitation thereof; Ariadne knew he didn't sleep much, though she couldn't remember now who had mentioned it, but she also knew the value of simply relaxing in the dark. And falling asleep with her head on his shoulder and his hand covering hers on his abdomen was a bliss she hadn't realized existed.

Arthur was pouring another cup of coffee, so Ariadne climbed out of the bed and came over to the table, scraping her hair back out of her face and feeling a touch of shyness. "Thanks. This feels weird," she said, taking the offered cup and sitting down in the chair opposite Arthur.

"I know," he said, in the same matter-of-fact tone. "But not bad."

She looked across at him, at a casualness most people probably never saw, at the faint smear of newsprint on his thumb and the fresh-shaved skin of his chin, at the way his eyes rested on her with a calmness belied by an underlying wonder.

She wanted to climb into his lap and kiss him, she wanted to cuddle him like she might a baby, but instead she just smiled again, curling her toes into the carpet and savoring the fleeting moment. "No, not bad."

* * *

They spent the day in various small tasks, mostly shopping; there were a few things that simply weren't available in France, and Ariadne took advantage of the unexpected time. Arthur accompanied her to the mall, but his errand list was shorter, and when he was through he gave her a discreet kiss and went to meet Dom. Ariadne grinned and waved him off, and continued to shop in peace.

The two men picked her up for dinner. Dom's favorite restaurant was actually a pub, possessed of dark booths and a staff that appreciated privacy, and the three of them ate enormous sandwiches and truly superior onion rings, and talked about Dreaming in general and extraction in particular. It was good to see Dom again, Ariadne acknowledged to herself, especially now that she wasn't distracted. It was he, after all, who had gotten her interested in Dreaming in the first place.

At one point Arthur excused himself to make a phone call, and Dom looked at Ariadne across the table, a small smile on his lips. She ate another onion ring, and waited.

"I'm glad you worked things out," Dom said at last, propping his elbow on the table and his head against his fist.

Ariadne shook her head. "Thanks for the advice."

He made a little negating motion with his free hand. "He looks…a lot better than he did."

The praise embarrassed her. Ariadne shrugged. "Sl - rest will do that."

"You two will be very good for each other, I think." Dom shifted to reach for the pickle end waiting on his plate. "What are your plans when you get back to Paris?"

"I still have class after the break," she replied. "After that…I don't know."

"There will be other jobs," Dom pointed out around his mouthful.

It was true; and yet, Ariadne realized, her enthusiasm for the next challenge had faded. It wasn't the death she'd died in the Dream - at least mostly; it was the quandary lurking beneath the entire setup, still nagging at her. _Theft. Invasion of privacy…_ "Yeah. Do you remember when we first started talking about this stuff?"

Dom blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Other applications for Dream tech." Ariadne wiped her fingers on her napkin and made air quotes. "The ones that aren't 'strictly legal'."

"Oh." He sat back. "They aren't as lucrative as extraction."

It was her turn to lean her elbows on the table. "Tell me about them."

* * *

The flights back to Paris were long, and crowded; even first class was full, and due to their last-minute ticket purchases they couldn't even sit together. Ariadne divided the flight times between sketching and sleeping; Arthur read, mostly, judging from the times she passed him on her way to the lavatory, though they could exchange no more than a smile. When they landed at last she was cranky and hungry, and wanted her own flat so much she could almost taste it.

Arthur told the taxi to wait and walked her up the narrow stairs, insisting on carrying her suitcase and then leaning a shoulder against the wall as she unlocked the door. "Why don't you have a bigger place by now?" he asked curiously.

"I hate moving." Ariadne pushed the door open and looked up at him. "You know, I don't even have your address."

"That's because I don't have one." Arthur gestured, and she preceded him into the tiny hallway, trying to process his statement.

"You mean you don't have a home in Paris?" she asked, taking the case from him and setting it down next to her coat tree.

"I mean I don't have one anywhere." His gaze down at her was faintly amused, but the statement sent a pang through Ariadne; it spoke of a loneliness more profound than she could easily grasp. She blinked up at him, propping her hands on her hips.

"Nowhere? You just live in hotels?"

"That's right." Arthur folded his arms, still looking amused. "Lots of people do, you know."

Ariadne shook her head once, and bit off her gloves so she could yank a key from the ring still in her hand. "Here." She held it out, and slapped it into the palm he extended hesitantly. "When you get tired of that, you can come here."

It was a ridiculous offer, and they both knew it; her flat was scarcely big enough for her, let alone two, and he'd never even been inside it before. But Arthur didn't laugh; instead, he folded his fingers slowly around the key, then cupped her face in his other hand and kissed her, hard and slow.

A promise, if ever she'd felt one.

"I'll see you later," he said, before she could recover words, and was gone.

And she didn't doubt him.

* * *

He was there the next afternoon when she got home from class, sitting cross-legged on her bed and reading her copy of _Gödel, Escher, Bach_ , and the sight made her just stand in the hallway and smile. When he looked up, pleasure gleaming out from behind his reserve, Ariadne dropped her bag, took off her coat, and stepped out of her shoes, and without a word climbed into the bed next to him - right next to him, as there wasn't much room. Arthur put an arm around her and started reading aloud, and Ariadne rested her head on his shoulder and listened to that marvelous voice.


	12. Where Sea Meets Shore

Spring in Paris is a miracle, if a rainy one. Arthur was an urbanite by nature and nurture both, but even he was not insensible to the glories the city presented afresh every morning, from buds to blossoms to leaves. It was the first time in years that he had spent so long in one city at a stretch, but it was less of a problem than he anticipated; he took a room at an old-fashioned hotel and settled gingerly in, finding its quirks exasperating at times compared to the more modern places he was used to, but drawing less attention among the other long-term residents.

It was an endless discovery, the long-term relationship he was building with Ariadne. It had been quite some time since he'd had to take anyone else's wishes into consideration, and it required considerable adjustment. But the rewards were proving worth the effort. It was strange to know that he could go to her tiny apartment, even spend the night there, though on those occasions he usually waited until she fell asleep and then moved to the futon, to spend most of the rest of the night on his laptop or with a book. He would close his eyes for an hour or two, maybe even three or four, before waking again to work the dawn in and listen to Ariadne stir in her cocoon of blankets.

That is, if she hadn't half-woken in the middle of the night and shuffled over to join him, putting her head in his lap and falling asleep again almost instantly. In his most secret heart, Arthur suspected he liked those moments best; not just Ariadne's desire to be close, but the utter trust in the gesture.

Some part of him still didn't expect it to last, but in the meantime, he savored it.

* * *

It was dim, not dark, and there were voices, unfamiliar ones. Arthur struggled to open his eyes, groping for the handgun he kept on the bedstand, but his fingers were half-numb and his brain clouded.

He recognized the symptoms, and fought them, because Ariadne's voice was there too, polite tones that were masking something else. Arthur finally managed to grip the gun properly and levered himself up into a sitting position, but as he did so, he heard the door to his hotel room close and lock.

A few seconds later Ariadne appeared in his view, his robe way too big on her; she had to hold the lapels together to keep it from slipping off her shoulders. Arthur blinked, trying to focus.

The fear he was expecting, the discomfort, simply weren't there. Neither was the infinitely-worse pity. Ariadne just looked sleepy, and slightly concerned. "Oh, hey."

Arthur put the gun down carefully; his brain still felt like glue. "I woke the neighbors, huh?"

Her smile flickered. "Just a couple." Ariadne sat down on the edge of the bed and looked him over clinically. "You okay?"

He swallowed, feeling the roughness from the scream he couldn't remember. "Yeah."

This had always been the sticking point, before. Any relationship that went beyond a few dates had run afoul of his night terrors sooner or later; they were rare, but they never left him, and being jolted out of a sound sleep by yelling and thrashing had always put his lovers off - even frightened them.

But Ariadne simply nodded, then stood and removed the robe, draping it over the end of the bed before sliding back between the sheets. Her deep purple sleep shirt was modest enough, but it made her look about twelve years old, and Arthur could understand why she might want to use his robe to face down the people who'd come knocking.

"Can you go back to sleep?" she asked, finishing the sentence with a yawn.

"It's hard not to," he admitted. The aftermath of his episodes always left him exhausted, even if he couldn't remember them; such times were usually the only nights where he slept normal hours.

"Then lie down," Ariadne ordered, amused, and patted his pillow.

No fear. No drama. Arthur wondered how he'd managed to find the one woman who could simply accept his condition without smothering him in concern, but he was too tired to pursue the thought. Obediently he lay down, ignoring the pillow in favor of Ariadne herself. Her chuckle vibrated under his ear, and her arms were warm around him.

Arthur closed his aching eyes.

* * *

Life was so different. Ariadne felt like her world had been turned upside down, again, or that she was living in the Paris of her first Dreams with Cobb, perpendicular to all she'd known before and equally as magic.

It was a city built, in many senses, for lovers, and while she and Arthur were hardly the stereotypical mushy couple, the spring-bedecked streets seemed to give them the extra welcome that they would never have found for instance, in her home town. Nor his, for that matter.

Ariadne busied herself with her last two classes, and her portfolio, and the designs for the two small jobs that Arthur found for them. Or was sought out for; she suspected it was more the latter, but he handled the business aspect of their working partnership and Ariadne was glad to let him. Details like that were his forté, after all.

And underneath the busyness and the bliss, she thought. There were decisions to be made; paths chosen, important ones. Ariadne found scattered hours to sit in the park and ponder, or to visit Professor M and talk.

The future was about the only thing she _didn't_ discuss with Arthur. Part of it was a sense that their relationship was still too new - she hardly wanted to scare him off by talking about permanence. Part of it was that she just wasn't finished thinking things through.

He knew she was chewing something over, Ariadne could tell. Sometimes she would catch him watching her with the intense, private gaze that he never used on anyone else, but when she waited for him to ask, he never spoke.

It was fascinating to watch the little changes in him. Ariadne only had a sketchy idea of how he'd been before - he was hardly the type to offer up every detail of his past - but she watched with interest as his extremely Parisian hotel room went from the bland charm of its original presentation to something a little more…personal. Not that Arthur was untidy, not at all; but it was more than a spread of grooming tools across the bathroom shelf or the overcoat hung neatly by the door. Gradually books appeared, to be lined up along the back of the desk, and a scrap of calligraphy in a frame took pride of place on his dresser. Ariadne occasionally wondered why someone would frame an obscure quote from Shakespeare, but forbore to ask.

Some of his things migrated to her flat as well, which pleased her deeply, though she didn't mention that either. Ariadne tried to avoid leaving her possessions in his rooms, because anything extra looked out of place, but a few made their way despite that - a sweater, a scarf, her spare hairbrush. Arthur found places for them all, usually before Ariadne realized that they weren't at her flat.

It was that, more than anything, that gave her hope for their relationship.

* * *

"I've gotten another job offer," Arthur said one April evening, when they were sitting on a park bench to eat supper and enjoy the sunset. "Istanbul, with Peters."

"Who's he?" Ariadne tore off a bit of her baguette and tossed it to the sparrow that was looking hopeful nearby. She loved these simple meals almost more than she did the fancier kind in the expensive restaurants that Arthur sometimes favored; fresh ham, fresh cheese, fresh butter and fresh air were a sensuous delight that never failed to please her.

" _She_ is an extractor I've worked with before." Arthur's little smirk chided her for her assumption, and Ariadne grinned back before nibbling her sandwich. "Not as good as Cobb, but a professional. She has her own architect, though; it's a solo offer."

Ariadne swallowed her bite and shrugged. "Good, because I have exams coming up. Are you planning on taking it?"

Arthur gazed off across the park for a moment. "It's lucrative," he said thoughtfully. "And Peters is careful. Yes, I'm inclined to accept; I can do the preliminary research from here."

Ariadne nodded. "How long would you be out of town?"

"If everything goes smoothly, about three weeks." Arthur looked back to her. "You…don't mind."

It was more than half a question, even said so flatly, and Ariadne was confused for a breath's worth before the concern came clear. She framed her statement carefully, and kept her tone unconcerned. "She didn't like you going off alone?"

Arthur's mouth twisted, almost a wince. "Jeanette was, um, the anxious type."

 _Needy,_ Ariadne translated, or maybe _jealous._ And thought the better of him for not using those words. "If I get pissy about you taking jobs, then how can I justify running off to visit friends for the weekend?" she pointed out cheerfully, watching him blink in surprise and burying her contempt for his ex deep inside. "We don't _own_ each other, Arthur, as fun as that could be sometimes."

That made him laugh out loud, still a rare enough occasion for Ariadne to savor it. "Touché. All right then, I'll tell her yes."

She gave him a firm nod, and pointed at the paper-wrapped sandwich in his hand. "Good. Now eat."

Arthur shook his head, laid his arm along the back of the bench behind her shoulders, and obeyed.

* * *

He made it back to Paris in the middle of a dreamy May night, the air warm and sweet with sleeping flowers. He missed Ariadne; they'd spoken a few times on the phone, but it wasn't safe to do so and the calls had been brief.

 _Tomorrow,_ he promised himself as he rode the hotel's elevator up to his floor. _You can meet her for breakfast, but there's no point in waking her up at three a.m._

His heart and his body both rebelled; Arthur had gotten used to Ariadne's warm breathing weight in his bed, or in hers, despite her refusal to make the bed in the morning.

_Tomorrow._

It had been strange, doing a job by himself again - that is, without the team he knew. He'd done solos before, but not recently, and the dynamics were always different. It had been something of a relief to fall back into his old role, with less responsibility, less worry; but Arthur had been surprised to find that just being the point man wasn't as satisfying as he'd expected.

It just hadn't been the same, without Dom.

He opened his door as quietly as possible - no passcards for this place, it was metal keys and they did clink - and slipped into his room, setting his bag by the door. The curtains were open, and moonlight filled the space with its fragile glow, a sacrament of light. Arthur was instantly aware of two things; his bed was _not_ made, and there was someone in it.

He let out a slow breath, feeling an old tightness ease in his chest. And smiled.

She was warm indeed, under the sheets Arthur peeled back delicately; arms wrapped around the pillow, dark-lashed eyes buttoned shut, wearing - he drew in a breath - nothing at all. He sat back on his heels on the bed and just admired the white moonlight on her white skin, the soft dent of her spine and the smooth curve of her backside. Ariadne didn't generally dress to show off her body, and that suited him, because he was the one who not only knew what she looked like underneath, but was the _only_ one who had the privilege of removing whatever she was wearing. But all the time they had been lovers in Paris, she had worn pajamas or a sleep shirt.

"You're late," she commented sleepily, and Arthur looked away from her ass and up to her face. He loved the way her hair tangled when she slept, as if it had a rebellious mind of its own, and he reached out to push it away from her eyes.

"Traffic. How'd you know I was going to be back tonight?"

Ariadne stretched, slow and deliberate, riveting his attention as she rolled over. "I have my sources." Her smirk was equally slow, a hot invitation. "You're wearing too many clothes."

"I have to agree." Arthur arched a brow as if to admonish, but reached for his shirt buttons anyway. Ariadne chuckled, and helped.

He expected her to fall asleep again afterwards, but instead she turned on one dim lamp - the moon having sunk away - and sat half-up against the piled pillows. On impulse, Arthur shifted so that he could put his head in her sheet-covered lap, and closed his eyes in bliss when she began stroking his hair. He had not known how much he missed such small gestures; receiving them as well as giving them was a revelation.

He let several minutes pass by before speaking, deliberately keeping himself relaxed. "What is it?"

Ariadne let out a soft laugh, though she didn't stop her gentle touch. "Should have known I hadn't fooled you."

"Yes, you should have," Arthur replied equably. "And?"

He heard her exhale. "I got a job offer yesterday."

This time he couldn't help the tenseness, though he didn't move. "Good one?"

"Very good." Her fingers drifted down to his nape, trailing over the sensitive skin there; it was one of her favorite spots. "Six months with this firm, maybe a year, and I'd be able to get my license."

Which had been, in part, her original goal in coming to Paris in the first place. Arthur opened his eyes to stare blindly across the room, knowing that she couldn't see his face. "I hope you said yes."

He was proud of himself for keeping his voice level. They hadn't discussed the future; he hadn't really even dared to think about it. But his heart had hoped, it seemed, and the newborn vision of the two of them forming their own core team was breaking up even as it coalesced. _It's her dream, the one she's had for years. You can't expect her to give it up._

Ariadne was talented - he knew that better than anyone except Dom, or possibly Miles. Combined with her intelligence and determination, she could rise far and fast…unhampered by a dream-thief with a history of violence.

He almost laughed. _I thought she would leave because of **me.**_

Idiot.

"I wanted to talk to you first," she said, her voice wavering a little, and he had a heart after all, because no cold gear could hurt like this. He'd forgotten it, how magnificently breathtaking the pain could be.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said gently, and sat up, sliding to the edge of the bed in the same movement. "It's what's best, isn't it?"

Her growl was inarticulate. Small strong hands fastened on his shoulders, and then he found himself flat on his back on the mattress, Ariadne straddling him in all her nude glory - though the burn in her eyes was definitely fury rather than lust.

"Stop it!" she snapped, pressing him down with both palms. "Dammit, Arthur, stop shutting me _out!_ "

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Ariadne - "

She pressed harder. "Do you _want_ an excuse to get rid of me?"

That made him look up at her. "No!"

Her chin quivered, then firmed. "Then _listen,_ you twit. I need to make a decision, and I need your input, but only if you're going to _talk_ to me instead of running away!"

That stung. "I'm not running away!"

"Only because I'm holding you down." She glared at his protest and settled herself more firmly. Arthur knew he could toss her aside easily if he tried, but her anger was a more potent weight than her mass. "I swear, it's not like we've known each other all that long, but I _swear_ you're more afraid of being happy than you are of getting hurt." When he opened his mouth she bumped it shut again with one palm. "Shut up and listen. I _like_ you, Arthur. I like being with you and sleeping with you and arguing over the best way to design a Dream. I don't want to give that up, I want to see where we can take it. But if you're going to try to cut and run every time something changes - "

The hot splash of a tear hitting his nose made his gut shrivel in shame, but his reach for her was aborted by her hands pinning his arms. "Don't you dare, I'm not _done_ yet."

Arthur licked his lips. "Ariadne, I - I'm not trying to - I mean - " He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and tried again. "You can't be a famous architect with a criminal for a lover."

Her arched brows were half exasperation, half surprise. "Says who?" She shook her head. "Is that - never mind, later. Look. I want my license, and this job is the best way to get it. But that's not all I want, and if I can trust you not to _bolt,_ maybe we can talk about it."

She was so beautiful, even tousled and angry and hurt; so fierce and alive, and he didn't deserve her. But he was inclined to be selfish. Gently, Arthur shook off her grip on his arms and reached up to cup her face and slide his fingers into her hair. "I'll listen," he told her. "I promise."

Ariadne insisted on making tea, pulling on the underwear and shirt she'd removed earlier and tossing his own pants at him with the curt comment that she didn't need the distraction just then. Arthur obeyed, settling crosslegged on the bed with his mug and watching as Ariadne leaned against the headboard and tucked her feet underneath her. She fussed with the pillows nervously, and he waited; it was her forum, she was in control.

Finally she sipped from her own cup, and sighed. "You still want this, right?" She gestured between them, and the uncertainty in her voice made him ache, made his fingers tighten on the porcelain.

"Yes." He wasn't sure if he could _keep_ it, even now, but her firm practicality was starting to make his fears look…absurd. Arthur met her eyes and imagined her held in his arms against all comers. "Yes, I do."

Ariadne's cheeks pinkened, but her nod was decisive. "Good." She took another swallow. "Now. I need to know something else. Are you happy with what you're doing? The Dreaming, I mean."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say _of course_ , but the last few weeks replayed themselves, and Arthur was surprised to find that the answer was different. "It's…not the same anymore," he blurted, equally surprised to hear the words fall out of his mouth. "I'm a point man, that's what I do best. The detail work. I don't really like being a team leader."

"That's what I thought." Ariadne nodded again. "You're good at it, but I know it stresses you out."

Arthur shrugged. Extractions _were_ stressful; that was the nature of the job. Ariadne took a deep breath. "Here's the thing. I _love_ doing architecture work for Dreams, it's like a fantasy come to life, but I'm not really comfortable with the ethics of it."

That _didn't_ surprise him; Arthur knew she'd been having doubts. "The theft?"

"More like the invasion of privacy. Corporate theft is one thing; breaking into peoples' _minds_ without permission…it's starting to bug me." Her expression was apologetic. "I'm not judging you - "

Arthur reached out to squeeze her knee briefly. "It's okay. Most people would feel that way, you know."

Ariadne smiled, rueful. "Well. I've been talking with Dom and Yusuf, and I think I know a way where I can still do Dream design without quite so much of the risk."

He swallowed more tea. "And?"

"Remember that conversation we had about customized dream-worlds?"

Arthur blinked. "I thought you weren't into porn."

"I never said that." She smiled sweetly, then burst into laughter and pointed at him. "You should _see_ your expression. No, I mean, there's a market there, for stuff that isn't sex, or at least mostly."

He knew his glare was useless, so he let it go. "You think so? From what I've heard most of the interest is in the X-rated stuff."

Ariadne shrugged. "Sure, porn's always going to have a huge corner on the market, but according to Dom there are plenty of people looking for something else, like those online communities or games but more immersive. And designing worlds for those would be _amazing._ "

The hollow feeling was back, if less intense; Arthur told himself that there was no reason why she couldn't do that and stay with him at the same time, but the truth was he preferred working with at least one or two people he trusted, and if she was doing other things he would be alone again. "I can see that."

Ariadne regarded him, eyes narrowing, then uncoiled enough to shove him with one narrow foot. "I don't know what you're thinking, but I bet I won't like it. Spill."

He looked down into his mug, then back up at her. "I'd miss you, that's all," he said quietly. "I like working with you."

Her grin was soft. "Good, because I like working with you too, and that's the other half of this. I don't want to join an ongoing outfit, I want to start one of my own."

 _Oh._ The possibilities arrayed themselves in his mind automatically, rolling out into the future - options, ideas, potential pitfalls, complications, profit margins. "You'd need to choose your location carefully - use of the machines is still illegal in most countries."

"I know. And it's not something I could do on the spur of the moment, or without doing a lot more research first. Or by myself. I'd need someone to find things out for me, organize stuff, handle the details." Her smile was gone, and she was watching him carefully. "So…would you be willing to work for _me_?"

He didn't know how she did it, how she turned his world inside-out with a few words, but it seemed like every time she did it was a better world afterwards. "No." Arthur watched her face fall, and kept his own sober. "It would have to be a partnership at the very least."

Ariadne sputtered, breaking into laughter before she got a clear word out, and it was a good thing he'd drunk most of his tea, because he lost his grip on the cup when she launched herself into his arms. Arthur held her tightly, grinning into her hair, dizzy and wondering and - happy.

And, finally, unafraid.


	13. Epilogue: Dancing

_Sixteen months later_

"It's more to show my family than anything else." Ariadne gazed at the stiff sheet of paper that declared her a licensed architect, and felt a curl of thrill in her belly despite her casual words.

"Of course it is." Arthur's sarcasm was gentle, as was the kiss he placed on her temple. "Are you going to take it home to show them?"

She leaned against him, his arm warm around her shoulders, and sighed happily. "I suppose I should visit, it's been a while." Ariadne looked up at her lover, seated next to her on the couch of their apartment. "Will you come with me this time?"

He cocked his head. "If you like."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't make me do it _alone._ "

Arthur chuckled, and Ariadne looked back down at the license in her hands. For so much of her life, this object had been her goal, her promised gateway to her dreams - the first complete step down a road that would let her make her mark on the world.

It was amazing how much things could change.

It wasn't that she planned never to _use_ it, Ariadne told herself. Dreams were incredible but they were also ephemeral, and even if their plan worked she still might want to build something in the real world someday. But Otherworlds was due to go live in Hong Kong in just over a month, and there were whole _universes_ under construction, Dream-realities that would last longer than the space of one sleep. Between the company's architect, its manager, its chemist, and its silent partners, they had a team well-funded for the venture and ready to open up the world of the Dream to people who just wanted to _play_.

It was even legal, at least in Hong Kong. And, as Arthur had pointed out wryly, had the distinct potential of making them all even richer than extraction work; but the money wasn't why she was doing it. _Okay, most of the reason why._

Her dreams weren't the same. But, Ariadne reflected, that didn't lessen her achievement.

Arthur squeezed her and let go, standing gracefully. "This deserves at least a night out on the town. I'll go make reservations."

"Okay." Ariadne watched him go, pursing her lips thoughtfully. _I'm not the only one who's changed._ Over the last year she'd seen Arthur actually start to believe that the future she envisioned for the both of them could be real; when he'd suggested that they buy a flat to share she had almost cried. The months she had spent working towards her license he had used to research every possible aspect for the creation of a recreational Dream company, gradually becoming as dedicated to the idea as Ariadne had. The fact that he was no longer risking his safety on extraction jobs was a major bonus, to her mind.

And Dom's investment in Otherworlds meant that he and Arthur got together on a regular basis, two old friends staying close. Sometimes Ariadne thought that brought her more satisfaction than anything else.

Well, almost.

She tilted her head back to see Arthur, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and lifting his phone to his ear.

 _Half of a whole._ _And the whole…_

"You know I love you, right?" she called, and caught his quick smile, the tender one that he kept only for her.

"Of course. Ah, bon soir - " He turned away to talk to the restaurant, and Ariadne grinned to herself and set her license carefully down on the low table. Tomorrow she could get it framed, maybe, and take a picture for Professor M.

She was trying to decide between ebony and floating glass when arms wrapped around her shoulders from behind and another kiss landed, this time on her jaw. "You know I love you too, right?"

Ariadne reached up to touch his wrists, strong and warm. "Of course."

"Good." His fingers on her chin turned her head for a proper kiss, and Ariadne lost herself in it, feeling possibility open up around her like a bloom of light.

… _Is greater._

And always would be.


End file.
